#it's important to know the judges that are running

[supi-wupi]

Tall, Clumsy, and Yours - Mingyu

pairing: Mingyu x Reader synopsis: Mingyu keeps asking to borrowing your sugar, your vacuum, your dog… You’re starting to think he’s just coming up with excuses to see you. wc: 3.9k genre: Fluff, Neighbours AU, Text formats warning: Mutual Pining, Domestic Chaos, Swearing, A Toaster almost on fire a/n: cutie!!! Special thanks to @gyubakeries and @mylovesstuffs for beta reading for me! i think my formatting died half way through or something...

Group Chat: ‘Flat 3A Disaster Club’ Members: You, Nari (best friend), Junhee (roommate)

You: someone just moved into 3B

Nari: what if they’re hot

Junhee: you say that about every new neighbor and last time it was a 50-year-old cat lady who hissed at you

Nari: and i stand by it. hotness is subjective

You: this one’s tall. very tall. like he hit his head on the hallway light tall

Junhee: i’m listening

You: also he dropped an entire bag of rice down the stairs.

Nari: clumsy?

You: violently

Nari: oh no

You: he tried to catch it. with his foot.

Junhee: so he kicked rice down the stairs?

You: exactly

Nari: ...i’m in love

—

Private Chat: 3B Guy (Unknown Number)

Unknown Number: Hi, I think I accidentally knocked on your door earlier while trying to get into 3B. Sorry if I startled you. Also... do you happen to have a broom?

You: this is the rice kicker, isn’t it

Unknown Number: Yes. Unfortunately.

You: you kicked rice down three flights. I feel like that takes skill

Unknown Number: Thank you? Do you happen to have a vacuum? I’ve made a lot of... progress.

You: progress with what?

Unknown Number: Spreading rice into every crevice of this building apparently

—

Group Chat: ‘Flat 3A Disaster Club’

You: he’s texting me he asked for a vacuum he sounds distressed.

Junhee: so he’s hot, tall, clumsy, and polite?

Nari: and tragic. don’t forget tragic. that’s very important.

You: he’s a walking cartoon

Nari: do you think he can cook?

Junhee: based on the rice? no.

—

Private Chat: 3B Guy (Now Saved as ‘Tall Clumsy 3B’)

Tall Clumsy 3B: I think I owe you some rice. Or a meal. Or an apology dinner. Or just dinner. Is this weird?

You: depends. do you still have rice in your socks?

Tall Clumsy 3B: Maybe. Please don’t judge me

You: too late

Tall Clumsy 3B: Fair. I’m Mingyu, by the way.

You: Nice to meet you, Mingyu. I’m your very judgmental neighbor.

—

[Group Chat: Apartment 3A Survival Squad] You, Nari, Junhee

Nari: tell me why i’m halfway through a face mask and the fire alarm goes off i look like shrek in distress

Junhee: wait it's not just your unit? mine too should i be worried or is this another “somebody microwaved tinfoil” situation

You: …i just ran down the stairs barefoot in a towel WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS CHAOS

Nari: godspeed, soldier you’ve lived with dignity mostly

You: shut up nari i think it came from 3B which means…

Junhee: oh no not him

You: yes tall clumsy 3B

—

[Text Log: Tall Clumsy 3B 🧍]

Mingyu: hey i think this is my fault 😅 (pasta accident?)

You: “pasta accident”?? what were you making, flaming carbonara???

Mingyu: i followed a video i just maybe… didn’t know oil could smoke that fast

You: you smoked OIL???

Mingyu: technically it smoked itself i just… helped

You: you are banned from olive oil until further notice

Mingyu: but it was extra virgin

You: you won’t be if you keep setting off alarms wait. that made no sense

Mingyu: that sounded like a threat and a compliment

You: go open a window and google “how to cook pasta without summoning Satan”

Mingyu: done also sorry if you got wet running outside your towel looked very… flappy

You: never speak of this again

—

[Group Chat: Apartment 3A Survival Squad]

Nari: flaming carbonara this man is your soulmate

Junhee: bet he did it on purpose "oops let me cook and also mildly endanger lives" so romantic

You: romantic? he nearly set the hallway on fire i was one spark away from becoming roasted girl in slippers

Nari: and yet ur still texting him

You: because i believe in public safety

Junhee: you believe in something it’s 6'2", wears hoodies, and can’t use a stovetop

—

[Text Log: Tall Clumsy 3B 🧍]

Mingyu: do you want to come over and try the non-burnt version i promise i used less oil just enough to lightly panic

You: this feels like a trap

Mingyu: come on what’s life without a little danger

You: …fine but if my eyebrows burn off i’m keeping your cactus

Mingyu: deal she could use a new mom anyway

—

[Group Chat: Apartment 3A Survival Squad] You, Nari, Junhee

Nari: update. i caught tall clumsy bringing in like 10 boxes labeled “KITCHEN???” with 3 question marks

Junhee: maybe it’s symbolic like he’s questioning the idea of kitchens as a whole

You: more likely he forgot what he packed again

Nari: he dropped one and then apologized to it

Junhee: i respect that. i too anthropomorphize my trauma

You: wait. he just knocked on my door hold on if i die, tell my cactus i loved her

—

[Text Log: Tall Clumsy 3B 🧍]

Mingyu: hey do you know where to buy shelf things like the ones that don’t fall over if you breathe on them

You: do you mean a bookcase a spice rack or emotional support

Mingyu: the middle one probably i opened one box and it’s just 14 bags of pasta and a rubber chicken

You: you literally moved in three weeks ago how are you just unpacking now

Mingyu: i was busy learning not to set oil on fire

You: fair. progress. you want help?

Mingyu: only if you’re good at building furniture or fake confident about it

You: i can hold things and make judgmental comments does that count

Mingyu: perfect come over, judge my kitchen

—

[Later That Night — Private Notes App Entry - You]

Things I Learned Helping Kim Mingyu Unpack: – He owns 7 mismatched mugs and insists they each have “a vibe” – The rubber chicken is named Gerald – He puts on music while organizing but skips every song halfway through – He called me “the chaos coordinator” and smiled like it was the highest honor – His spice rack leans slightly left. So does he. – He said “thanks for making my kitchen feel less empty” – I forgot what I was supposed to say back – I think I like him – A lot

—

[Group Chat: Apartment 3A Survival Squad]

You: i helped him build a shelf he fed me pasta we named a rubber chicken it was weirdly domestic what do i do now

Nari: fall in love duh

Junhee: or deny your feelings for 6 more episodes your choice

You: i already wrote about him in my notes app it’s too late isn’t it

Nari: so so late

—

[Text Log: Tall Clumsy 3B 🧍]

Mingyu: hey thanks for today gerald says hi too he’s very grateful you found his missing leg

You: tell him i accept his squawky gratitude

Mingyu: also wanna come over tomorrow for Operation: Living Room we might need reinforcements emotionally and furniture-wise

You: i’ll bring snacks and self-doubt

Mingyu: perfect. i'll bring tea and excessive optimism

—

[Text Log: Tall Clumsy 3B 🧍]

Mingyu: today’s forecast: 90% chance of furniture assembly and 100% chance of me sitting on instructions like an idiot

You: good i brought snacks, tea, and an unreasonable amount of emotional baggage

Mingyu: we’re gonna need more pillows

—

[Scene: Mingyu’s Apartment — Operation: Living Room, In Progress]

[Private Notes App Entry – You]

Blanket Fortress Notes: – Mingyu decided couches are overrated and built a floor nest instead – He called it “strategic lounging” – There are three blankets. Two are mine now. – We sat on opposite ends of the blanket fort and shared popcorn like a teen drama cliché – He threw a cushion at me when I made fun of his romcom taste – He smells like laundry and cinnamon – I almost asked for his middle name, just to keep hearing him talk – He said this felt “safe” – I pretended that didn’t make me want to cry

—

[Group Chat: Apartment 3A Survival Squad]

You: we built a pillow fort he called it a “low-stress zen zone” we accidentally watched two romcoms and shared a blanket should i move to mars now or later

Nari: move to mars after you move into his heart

Junhee: tell him you like him or trip and fall on his face one of those will get the point across

You: why is my heart doing weird things it keeps skipping

—

[Text Log: Tall Clumsy 3B 🧍]

Mingyu: hey do you think people are like furniture

You: go on

Mingyu: some people are like lamps they light up the room some people are chairs solid comforting and some are like shelves holding things up when everything’s messy

You: what kind of furniture am i

Mingyu: you’re the couch where i feel like i can finally sit down and breathe

You: you’re bad at this and also terrifyingly good at this

Mingyu: do you want to build a new fort next week different movie same snacks same us

You: yes but this time you’re making the popcorn

—

[Private Notes App Entry – You]

It’s a blanket fort until someone calls it a date.

He hasn’t. I haven’t. But maybe I don’t need a label to know this feels like something soft and real.

Maybe next time, I’ll sit closer. Maybe next time, I’ll stay longer. Maybe next time, I’ll ask what kind of lamp he thinks I am.

Or maybe I’ll just keep writing things I don’t say.

For now.

—

[Text Log: Tall Clumsy 3B 🧍]

Mingyu: what are you doing tonight? and if the answer isn’t “watching legally questionable streaming links with me,” i’m hanging a sad sign on my door

You: i was going to deep clean my soul and cry over mismatched socks but i guess you win

Mingyu: perfect bring your soul and a hoodie my heater’s doing that thing again where it hates me

—

[Scene: Mingyu’s Apartment — Nighttime Routine of the Emotionally Repressed]

[Private Notes App Entry – You]

Almost #1: I tripped over his dog’s toy and fell into his chest. He didn’t move. Just said, “I got you,” like it was nothing. Like it was normal. Like he wouldn’t notice that I stood there too long.

—

[Group Chat: Apartment 3A Survival Squad]

You: definition of hell: being two inches from your crush when he says “i got you” like sir do you??? do you GOT ME???

Nari: marry him immediately

Junhee: kiss him and then sue for emotional damage

—

[Private Notes App Entry – You]

Almost #2: We reached for the same popcorn bowl. His fingers grazed mine. Neither of us moved. I looked at him. He looked at me. I blinked first. I always do. But he didn’t pull away.

—

[Text Log: Tall Clumsy 3B 🧍]

Mingyu: you know what’s weird i don’t usually like quiet but when you’re here it’s different like my brain finally shuts up

You: that’s not weird that’s beautiful also i think your popcorn burned

Mingyu: worth it if i get to talk to you while it burns

—

[Private Notes App Entry – You]

Almost #3: He walked me home (even if it was next door). Like he always does. We stood at my door. Like we always do. He said “goodnight” but slower than usual. I almost said, “Don’t go.” I almost asked him to stay. I didn’t. He didn’t.

—

[Group Chat: Apartment 3A Survival Squad]

You: why is almost worse than nothing at all he’s so close it hurts but maybe i’m imagining it maybe he’s just nice maybe he doesn’t—

Nari: no he’s in love with you

Junhee: there’s nothing platonic about the way he looks at you like you’re the ending to a song he didn’t know needed a chorus

—

[Text Log: Tall Clumsy 3B 🧍]

Mingyu: hey can i ask you something real

You: always

Mingyu: do i make you nervous because you make me feel like every almost could be a yes if i just asked right

You: maybe ask again tomorrow maybe the answer will be braver then

—

[Private Notes App Entry – You]

And maybe that was the most intentional almost of all.

We’re orbiting something soft and fragile and unnamed.

But I think—

I think it’s love.

—

[Text Log: Tall Clumsy 3B 🧍]

Mingyu: you left your hoodie which means you’ll have to see me again sorry that’s just science

You: my tragic villain-origin plan to never see you again has failed how could i forget the hoodie you literally threw at me because your apartment was “winter in the arctic but sadder”

Mingyu: to be fair i was hoping it would smell like you after so mission accomplished

—

[Private Notes App Entry – You]

I shouldn’t read into it.

It’s just a hoodie.

It’s just Mingyu.

…but he said he wanted it to smell like me. That feels like something. That is something.

—

[Group Chat: Apartment 3A Survival Squad]

You: so when someone says they wanted your hoodie to smell like you that’s like totally platonic right

Nari: you are clinically delusional

Junhee: tell him you like him or i will climb up your fire escape and shout it from your window don’t think i won’t i did musical theatre in high school i project

—

[Scene: Your Bedroom — Late Night, One Missed Call, One Mistake]

[Phone Call Log — Voicemail Transcription]

Mingyu (recorded, late at night):

"Okay, you’re probably asleep. Or ignoring me. Or maybe you knew I’d say something stupid and decided not to give me the chance.

But…

I miss you. I know we literally saw each other six hours ago. But I miss you.

And when you left your hoodie, I didn’t want to give it back. Not because I’m creepy. Just because it felt like… like a part of you stayed.

I keep thinking about what you said. About the maybe.

And I guess I just want you to know—

For me, it’s already a yes.

It’s been yes for a while now."

—

[Private Notes App Entry – You]

I played the message three times.

I think I stopped breathing halfway through.

This is real. This is happening.

Mingyu likes me.

…Mingyu likes me?

What if he thinks I don’t feel the same?

What if he regrets saying it?

What if I wait too long?

What if I miss my chance?

—

[Text Log: Tall Clumsy 3B 🧍]

You: i listened to your message every word three times okay maybe five

Mingyu: ...oh. cool cool cool cool i’m going to launch myself into the sun now

You: wait i wasn’t done i was going to say it’s a yes for me too even if i was scared before i’m not anymore

Mingyu: you’re going to have to repeat that in person because i just forgot how to breathe

You: i’m outside your door

Mingyu: what

You: don’t make me knock just open it

—

[Scene: His Door, Halfway Open, Heart Completely Full]

[Private Notes App Entry – You]

He opened the door in my hoodie.

I kissed him before either of us could overthink it.

It wasn’t clumsy. It wasn’t almost.

It was yes.

—

[Scene: Mingyu’s Apartment — Morning, You Woke Up Wearing His Hoodie]

[Group Chat: Apartment 3A Survival Squad]

You: i woke up in a hoodie that smells like mingyu help

Junhee: not help mission accomplished

Nari: how was last night? do tell or i’m sending more fire escape musical threats

You: we kissed which, surprisingly, was not at all clumsy also i’m lowkey terrified he’s going to bring it up like fifty times today

—

[Text Log: Tall Clumsy 3B 🧍]

Mingyu: good morning did you sleep okay? also, your hair looks like a small, confused bird

You: thank you for the poetic description and yes i slept better than expected

Mingyu: that’s good because i have a confession: i woke up thinking about you and accidentally sent a text to my mom about it

You: please tell me it wasn’t as dramatic as it sounds

Mingyu: “i think i’m in love with my neighbor” and then i immediately followed up with “sorry, wrong chat”

—

[Group Chat: Apartment 3A Survival Squad]

Nari: wait you didn’t share the text????

You: absolutely not he would never forgive me

Junhee: babe, your secret is safe with me but also i’m dying to know more

You: don’t die yet i’ll tell you everything when we’re all together later

—

[Scene: Later That Day — Mingyu and You Cooking Dinner Together]

You: sooo you’re officially the worst secret keeper i’ve ever met

Mingyu: hey! accidental texts happen to everyone

You: not like that that was practically a public announcement

Mingyu: guess it’s out now but i’m glad you’re here and that you stayed after last night

You: me too

—

[Private Notes App Entry – You]

I never thought waking up in someone else’s hoodie would feel like a new beginning.

But here we are.

The awkward texts, the accidental confessions, the nervous smiles — they all mean something real.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m not scared of what comes next.

—

[Group Chat: Apartment 3A Survival Squad]

Nari: okay, seriously you guys better spill the details soon we’re running out of popcorn for these cliffhangers

Junhee: i’ve already made a pros and cons list about mingyu as a boyfriend spoiler: pros heavily outweigh cons

You: you’re such a spy it’s terrifying

Mingyu: yeah, can we cool it with the investigation? some things are private, you know

Nari: privacy is a myth here welcome to the club

—

[Private Chat: You & Mingyu]

You: everyone’s acting like we’re celebrities or something

Mingyu: well, our group chat basically is a reality show at this point

You: so, about that date what were you thinking?

Mingyu: something simple like dinner and a walk?

You: sounds perfect as long as i don’t trip on our walk and turn it into a disaster

Mingyu: i promise i’ll catch you every time but only if you wear those sneakers i like

—

[Group Chat: Apartment 3A Survival Squad]

Junhee: ooooh date plans! i demand photos and live commentary

Nari: and no hiding awkward moments we want the full clumsy experience

You: you’re terrible friends

Mingyu: agreed

—

[Later That Evening – Text Log: Tall Clumsy 3B 🧍]

You: sooo i just spent 20 minutes trying to decide what to wear and then spilled juice on my shirt

Mingyu: classic you but don’t worry, i’ll bring an extra shirt just in case

You: you really think of everything

Mingyu: only the important stuff

—

[Private Notes App Entry – You]

Maybe clumsy isn’t so bad when you have someone willing to catch you —

Literally and figuratively.

I’m nervous about this date, but for once, it feels exciting instead of scary.

And if Mingyu’s by my side, maybe I can survive the awkwardness with a smile.

—

[Group Chat: Apartment 3A Survival Squad]

Nari: today is the day!!! remember to send proof you survived the date without breaking anything

Junhee: i’m betting on at least one trip and one spilled drink 100% guarantee

You: stop jinxing me, guys

Mingyu: don’t underestimate my clumsy partner

—

[Private Chat: You & Mingyu — Just Before the Date]

You: okay i’m ready but i’m nervous as heck

Mingyu: you look great, trust me and i’m nervous too, so we’re even

You: deal just promise you won’t laugh when i inevitably trip

Mingyu: i’ll catch you and laugh with you

—

[Text Log During Dinner]

You: (this food is amazing) (and i’m trying not to knock over my water glass)

Mingyu: (same here) (it’s kinda fun though, right?)

You: definitely memorable can’t wait to tell the group about my gracefulness

—

[Walk in the Park — Real-time Texts]

You: hey wait for me! trip oops

Mingyu: caught you again you’re gonna wear me out at this rate

You: clumsy and tall is a bad combo

Mingyu: nah, it’s the perfect combo keeps things interesting

—

[Group Chat: Apartment 3A Survival Squad — After the Date]

Nari: status update! did they survive?

Junhee: any emergency room visits?

You: no ER but almost

Mingyu: she almost turned the park bench into a climbing wall

You: and i made him chase me to keep me from falling it was chaotic but nice

Nari: awww so cute you guys

—

[Private Notes App Entry – You]

First date checklist:

Tripped multiple times

Almost fell into the pond

Mingyu laughed and held me steady every time

Actually had fun

Maybe this clumsy, tall thing is exactly what I needed.

—

[Group Chat: Apartment 3A Survival Squad]

Nari: ok seriously, you two are a disaster duo and I’m here for it

Junhee: someone bring popcorn for the next date — gonna be wild

You: can you not? i’m still recovering from the last one

Mingyu: if it means more texts like this, i’m all in

Nari: so what’s the plan? round two? or do we need a first aid kit first?

You: maybe something low-key no climbing benches or near ponds this time

—

[Private Chat: You & Mingyu]

You: thank you for catching me like 5 times

Mingyu: it’s kinda my job now also, your smile after the last trip? worth it

You: stop making me blush but seriously, i had fun tonight

Mingyu: me too we should do it again soon

You: next time let’s try something indoors fewer chances for me to fall

—

[Group Chat: Apartment 3A Survival Squad — Planning Phase]

Nari: how about a game night? indoors, safe, and low-impact

Junhee: but can we get snacks? asking for a friend

You: game night sounds perfect

Mingyu: challenge accepted — prepare to lose at every game

Nari: omg confident much?

—

[You, thinking to self — Quick Diary Entry]

The first date was a mess, but it felt easy and warm. Like… maybe this is the start of something good. Game night next — fingers crossed i don’t trip over the rug.

—

[Group Chat: Apartment 3A Survival Squad — Game Night Setup]

You: snacks are ready, couch is comfy, and no rugs in sight

Mingyu: impressive prep. almost suspicious

Nari: almost? you expect her to plot against you?

Junhee: just wait till she pulls out the secret weapon: trivia questions no one knows the answers to

You: guys, focus. this is a friendly game night

Mingyu: friendly but prepare to lose, just saying

—

[Private Chat: You & Mingyu — Right Before Game Night]

You: thank you for making the last few weeks really fun didn’t think borrowing sugar and a vacuum would lead here

Mingyu: me neither. guess clumsiness and sugar cravings are a good combo after all

You: you’re a good neighbor, Mingyu

Mingyu: and you’re the best excuse to hang out

—

[Group Chat: After Game Night — Everyone Tired but Happy]

Nari: this was perfect. best game night ever

Junhee: can’t wait to do it again — maybe next time we add karaoke?

Mingyu: only if you promise to go easy on me

You: deal. but next time, no falling allowed

Mingyu: no promises, but I’ll try

—

[Private Chat: You & Mingyu — After Everyone Has Left]

Mingyu: so… about all the “borrowing” i’ve been doing

You: yeah? still can’t figure out if you just like sugar or if it’s an excuse

Mingyu: honestly? it’s both. but mostly it’s an excuse to see you

You: I was hoping that was the answer

Mingyu: then how about we make this official? neighbors, friends… something more?

You: I’d like that

Mingyu: good, because I’ve got one last clumsy move for you

You: oh no

Mingyu: promise to catch me again?

You: always.

—

Hearts full and smiles lingering, you lean on the balcony railing, looking at the night sky.

You (to yourself): ‘Maybe some falls aren’t accidents… maybe they’re the start of something worth holding on to.’

masterlist ♪

[n0thingiscool]

I question the usefulness or validity of Ballotpedia anymore since they voluntarily stoped doing Judgepedia.

[stop-breaking-my-heart-dragonage]

I love the romances in datv (Neve my Beloved) but I can't get over all the talk about how it'd have the most romantic romances in the series. They aren't bad but most romantic? I wish I didnt go into it with that expectation lol

Oof. Yeah.

My opinion on Veilguard is complicated, but when it comes to the romances...? I feel that, anon. I feel that so damn hard.

The romances are one of my favorite things about a Dragon Age game because it's a choice that can, when done well, completely change your experience playthrough to playthrough, y'know?

And for me there are a handful of romances where if I don't choose them, if I do an alternate playthrough...? I miss them so goddamn much. I miss them enough that I actively struggle to even finish alternate playthroughs. That's how much they've impacted me.

I'll always hold Alistair up as like.... the romance for me. Honestly, I think DAO set the S-tier of romances with him, Leliana, Morrigan, and Zevran as far as writing goes and how interwoven their romances are with the HoF's arc and the plot... they're not just fluff that's tacked on, it's not just, "oh, if you romance them, you get one unique scene toward the end of the game, and some different dialogue!"

I could go on, and on, and on about Alistair and his romance with my Tabris. Hell, even outside of the romance, just their dynamic in the game. Their friendship! I could write essays about the little nuances and how beautiful and tragic his romance can be, and the branching paths, hhhhnnngggggg you can have so many different endings with him!

In DAO, you have many opportunities to flirt. You can give them gifts, and special gifts give you cutscenes where you actually talk about the gift you're giving them. You can set the pace of the relationship. You have different paths you can take and you can discover cute things, like okay.... for Alistair, there's the conversation where he gives you the rose. If you go out with only him in your party, and trigger that, you can get special extra dialogue because you two are alone.

Like... they thought about that. They thought about the player taking just Alistair around somewhere. Why would they? Why would you?

Unless you're roleplaying walking around Redcliffe together to gather supplies to bring back to camp and accidentally talk to him, triggering the scene on the docks.

It's little things like that, special things, that make every playthrough with a different romance feel unique. It feels like the writers put so much thought and care into every situation you'd be in, they thought about how the romance would not only affect your playthrough, but how it'd affect the character you're romancing beyond just... ending the game with a partner.

Hell, it makes you want to replay the game because if this romance was this good, what are the others like? Y'know?

Which is WHY when I heard them make the very bold claim that Veilguard would be the most romantic, I had doubts... because they're competing with Alistair. They're competing with Morrigan, Leliana, and Zevran. Not to mention literally everyone else in DA2 and DAI...... except maybe Sebastian.

If there's one thing I can say about Veilguard's romances, it's that at least they're better than Sebastian's... which is not a high bar because Sebastian's DLC, can only be romanced by a lady Hawke, and from what I've heard/seen of the romance, they don't even get a kiss...

Look, if Veilguard wasn't a Dragon Age game, I'd say the romances are fine, good even... for what they are. Because they do have good moments! They're just lacking, and in some cases, feel unfinished... like there are scenes missing.

I romanced Davrin on my first playthrough, Lucanis on my second. My third playthrough with Carver as Rook is undecided, though I'm thinking either Neve or Bellara.

With Davrin I played an elven Grey Warden, and that really enhanced his romance with me because 1. surprise, surprise, CJ really likes the Grey Wardens and when the opportunity for another Grey Wardens in love story to happen, she picked it, and 2. It felt like Nesryn and him had actual chemistry when talking about warden things, which led into feeling they had chemistry outside of that.

With Lucanis, I played a Lord of Fortune because I thought it'd be kind of funny for this himbo of a man, the literal embodiment of sunshine, to be a pirate who then falls in love with an Antivan Crow. And I have..... feelings. About Lucanis' romance. Especially as someone who also is an Andersmancer. It's good, but also not. It healed parts of me, only to then do more damage when I realized that Lucanis feels like the AO3 version of Anders who is chill and controlled and Justice is also in love with you, actually........ and that brings up conflicted feelings within me.

Looking back at these two now, I prefer Davrin's romance. But the problem with Veilguard's approach to romance, in my opinion, is not just the lack of content. It's not just the feeling that some of the companions have better chemistry with each other than they do with Rook. It's not just the weird pacing of it all.

God, how do I word this.... when I play Tabris, Alistair is crucial to her arc. Absolutely crucial. Remove the slow burn of their romance, or remove their friendship, and she's a completely different person.

When I play Ed Hawke, romancing Anders is interwoven into his arc. The playthrough wouldn't be the same if they remained friends. The impact of the ending would hit entirely different. Then, when I play Aris Hawke, romancing Isabela adds such a different flavor to the story. It's like night and day. And they're both great, that's the thing!

I think Cullen and Josephine are my favorite romances in DAI because they're not traveling companions, they're your advisors. It's different, and it adds layers to their romances. I'm in war table meetings with them. We're leading this operation together, and I find those dynamics so interesting.

In my opinion, the romances do not add anything crucial to Rook's story. At the end of my second playthrough, I wondered if I should bother trying the others out... which is not great!

Though, honestly, a criticism I have of Rook is in both playthroughs I did, they felt like the same character with different skins despite me picking different choices. Different faction, different dialogue.

Carver's run is going a little different but I think that's just my brain filling in those blanks, which.... yeah. I feel like any depth Rook and the romances had was concocted in my mind because the game didn't give me much to chew on.

So even though I did two romances that feel different, Rook remains the same in the end, and like.... that's not something I can say about HoF, Hawke, or the Inquisitor.

There's always going to be headcanon and personal writing when it comes to DA, that's how fandom works, y'know? But unlike the previous games, this actively feels unfinished, and like it expects me to finish it for them.

Yes, you get cute, flirty banter with them, and you get the scene where they go to your room... and from what I've heard Emmrich actually gets a bonus scene so like good for him.

I mean that genuinely, too. Seriously, good for him to be the standout of having an extra, romance specific scene. I haven't seen anyone mention any of the other companions getting one.

But do I feel like the romances impacted Rook to the same level of depth? No, unfortunately. And it sucks! Because I do enjoy the companions! And the bits we do get of the romances, I like!

But do not try to tell me they're the most romantic in the series because they're not, I'm so sorry. I want them to be! I want them to feel fleshed out and interwoven with Rook's arc within the actual game, and not through headcanon! I see the potential, I see the intrigue of certain Rooks with certain companions!

I could go on and on about this, and I will if anyone else asks, but yeah, anon.... I feel you.

Also, I'd like to hear other opinions on this since I've only done two of the romances, so maybe there is more depth to be found that I just don't know about. Maybe I haven't found my golden combo yet.

Plus, I just like reading about other people's experiences with DA romances, I find it super interesting.

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

Outdrawn

f/f contemporary romance

two cartoonist who’ve been rivals since uni, and now have competing webcomics online, have to work together on the relaunch of a cult classic at the comic press they both work at

they both struggle with art-related physical and mental health issues, and complicated families

[unhonestlymirror]

Можете забити мене камінням, але як медик, я вважаю, що молодим мамам вкрай необхідно жити НЕ під обстрілами. Краще взагалі за кордоном, якщо є можливість. Сирени 24/7, поганий сон, постійний страх - це гарантовано зруйнована психіка дитини (плюс, no one can destroy a child better than their mentally unstable and stressed mother). Жоден патріотизм, жодна любов до землі не варта здоров'я і життя твоєї дитини.

[sevsgiirl]

Omg okay I can't stop thinking about needy lovesick Sevika with a younger femme partner (you can totally do a continuation of the fic you wrote) so what if, she's a little needy&insecure for their age gap? That her girl gets bored/annoyed with her? (She doesn't have this type of thoughts all the time, but the seeds of doubts grows when she hears other people talk, not directly about her and reader, but in general but it does linger when others points out how different they are) or in her own way, she start craving more compliments, affections from her but dunno how to do it and at the same time she's trying to gauce if her girl still likes her (she does!!) yet just the thoughts/doubts hurts Sevika like so bad, because she would do anything for her darling, what she has to do to make her girl still love her and not leave her?

— sevika with a younger partner and feeling insecure

synopsis: sevika doesn’t have a type. whether they’re older or younger, just as long as they could keep up with her that’s all mattered. but ever since you two started dating, she starts to wonder if she’s the one who could keep up with you and how deep down, it scares her that you might find a problem with it eventually.

note: I just had to post this before going to sleep because the idea is too good. I love the way your brain works and again, thank you for sending in the req <3 love you and I hope you like this.

you were a beacon of light in the cesspool of chaos that is sevika’s life.

to this day, she still doesn’t understand how you and her got into a relationship but here you are now, going strong for almost a year and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

you two rarely get into arguments, when you did she never hesitates to reach out and fix the situation right away because she can’t stand being on bad terms with you for long.

you two are on the same mental wavelength, which sevika appreciates given how you’re a lot younger than her. she’s in her 40s and you were in 20s, but sometimes she forgets because conversations always run smoothly between you two.

but just because she forgets that doesn’t mean other people fail to bring it up.

when you started dating, it was a bit difficult given how it wasn’t received well by a lot of her peers. not that they judged her for it because they could never unless they wanted to have their face busted in. but it was the occasional remarks that had a hint of judgement in them that made sevika uncomfortable.

things such as “she’s a bit young, isn’t she? you better keep an eye on her especially because you’re always at work. it’s hard being in a relationship with someone who’s at a different stage in life as you.”

both of you had jobs but her work compared to yours was hectic. you work as a waitress at jericho’s meanwhile sevika is paid to get her hands dirty for silco. the job was tedious and draining and sometimes she comes home, tired to the bone that she could barely catch up with you. which she feels immensely guilty for.

you’ve reassured her that it isn’t a big deal and that you understand her status in zaun is far more important than yours. you’ve always acknowledged sevika’s role in the under city and why she was feared by many, that’s what attracted you to her in the first place. she was loyal, devoted and her endurance was insane.

but still, despite how sevika’s job is her number one priority, it still doesn’t slip her mind that she may accidentally neglect you and your needs without her knowing.

and she knows it takes a toll on you too, you just don’t want to bring it up because you respect her too much. and she was right because when she came home early one night you weren’t there, and it was almost midnight when you finally returned and you were shocked to see sevika sitting on your couch waiting for you. usually she’d be back around 2-3am.

“hey, you didn’t tell me silco would let you off the hook early,” you said but your words became background noise because she was too focused on your appearance. you were dressed up and from where she sat she could tell you’ve had a lot to drink.

it’s not that it upset sevika you went out, you could do whatever you want but it saddens her that you didn’t even go out of your way to tell her about it assuming she’d be coming home late. is this what you do when she’s not here? go out with your friends and have fun? it’s not that she expects you to wait for her in your apartment all day while she’s away for work.

still, the thought bothers her as she wonders what you must’ve been up to while she was gone. she tries to set the thought aside, not wanting to think bad of you because she knows you’d never go against her back. but certain thoughts crept up at the back of her mind. did you meet someone while you were out? were you offered drinks? did someone invite you out to dance?

“sev, baby, you there?” she didn’t even realize she zoned out until she felt you cupping her cheek “are you tired? you shouldn’t have stayed up for me.”

she shook her head “it’s alright. but yeah, silco let me off early and I wanted to surprise you.”

your shoulders sagged “I’m sorry. I assumed you’d come home late again so I decided to just go out with friends. had I known I would’ve waited so we can stay in and cuddle.”

despite your flattery words, the only thing that stuck to sevika was you implying she’d be late again. you didn’t mean it maliciously, there was no bitterness in your tone but instead there was just… acceptance. which frustrated her because people were right.

perhaps being at different stages in life does this. you needed a partner who you can home to and have fun with but instead you got her who’s always late, is already asleep when you probably want to stay up and have sex at night. she would force herself to push through just for you but she isn’t getting any younger and it shows.

maybe it’s because others have planted it in her head that you two are just far too different that’s why she’s overthinking like this, but it’s becoming more and more evident that they were right and if she doesn’t find a way to fix this, god knows before you start seeing the cracks and the dents as well.

and so in the following day she asked silco if she could cut off her usual hours at work to get back home early. at least for a few weeks and silco was shocked for a second because if there was anyone who’s extremely dedicated to their job, it’s her.

but it’s because of that he deliberates on the request “very well,” he answered “but if the matters are urgent I expect you to come in either way,”

well, it’s better than nothing, sevika thought. what matters is she’ll try to find some time to spend the following weeks with you and to hopefully regain the spark in your relationship.

not that she’s saying it’s lost but she’s scared it will. because if her days don’t consist of work, she’s either at the bar playing cards to blow off some steam, which isn’t exactly a productive way of spending one’s time.

unlike you, you have tons of friends who you go out with at clubs and sevika just doesn’t want to think about all the people you meet there, who are probably the same age as you, and have wanted to ask you out but you turned them down because of her.

meanwhile, she’s here and she can’t even keep you happy like how you deserve.

it eats her up alive that’s why as soon as she comes back from work a lot earlier than usual, she immediately engulfs you in a back hug when she sees you cooking in the kitchen.

you gasped, not expecting her “sev, you’re home.” you were surprised as you turned around “did something happen?”

she shook her head, smiling “no sweetheart, silco just let me off early again. plus I’ve been meaning to spend more time with my girl…”

you still weren’t used to the disruption of the routine, because she’s normally away at these hours, but you weren’t complaining.

and with that, you spent most of the evening cooking and catching up with each other. you didn’t miss the way sevika followed you around the house like a lost puppy when you started cleaning up to get ready for bed.

you raised an eyebrow when she wrapped her arms around your waist while you were washing the dishes, noticing how she’s awfully more needy than usual.

“baby, go rest. you just got back home from work.” you giggled and she just shook her head.

“I just want to spend more time with you. I feel like I haven’t been the best partner.”

that halted you in your tracks and you angled your head so you can face her “baby, what makes you think that?” your eyebrows were furrowed and she just held you tighter.

she lets out a breath, tired and awfully nervous about vocalizing her doubts. what if once she points it out you start seeing the red flags too? and then these affectionate gestures just won’t be enough? what then?

“I know with my job and the responsibilities I have, I haven’t been able to fulfill your needs. you have so much ahead of you and I’m always at work and I just don’t want to make it seem like I’m wasting your time.” she said and you just stood there, letting her words sink in.

“you’re young and you could be with someone whose head isn’t always stuck in a bunch of paperwork or is running around the lanes doing silco’s dirty work.” her jaw clenched and she starts to wonder if admitting to all of this was a good idea.

“I’m sorry, princess. I just don’t want to bore you by leaving you here at home all by yourself…”

you immediately swiveled around in her arms and took her face in your hands.

“sev, look at me.” you said, your voice stern “I could give less than two fucks about people my age. you think when I got into a relationship with you I didn’t know what I was signing myself up for? of course I did and I don’t regret any of it. I know you have responsibilities and I accepted all of your duties the moment you became mine.”

“I could never be bored of you, baby.” you told her, thumb caressing her cheek “you don’t treat me any differently because of my age so why should I? I love it that you’re so hard at work and that you provide for me. the fact my salary at jericho’s isn’t even enough to pay half of our rent but you don’t mind because you provide for us both, why would I find that boring? that’s fucking sexy.”

she couldn’t help but let out a snort “oh, so what you’re saying is that you’re staying with me because I’m basically your sugar mommy?”

you grinned “amongst other things,” you said before capturing her lips with your own.

the kiss was hot, heavy and slow as sevika gripped your hips and pulled you against her. pushing her knee up and sliding it across your thighs and she started rubbing against your clothed cunt, making you whimper.

“so you’re not bored of me? or mad?” she asked as she pulled away to look at you.

you rolled your eyes “you could be 23 or 75 for all I care and I still wouldn’t get bored of you.”

your finger drew circles around her chest as you fluttered your eyes up at her “plus you fuck me like you’re 23 anyway, so I don’t see why I would look for someone my age.”

she couldn’t help but laugh, swooping you up in her arms and you circled your legs around her waist as she walked you to your bedroom “god, you’re such a handful.” she said.

you smirked “but you love it.”

[thestuffedalligator]

There is a species of butterfly that lives in the mountains.

When it hatches as a caterpillar, it lowers itself to the ground on a strand of silk, and then produces a chemical that smells like the larvae of ants. An ant eventually discovers it, lured by the scent, and brings it back to the anthill, where it is cared for by the colony until it pupates. After a few weeks, the adult butterfly crawls back up through the anthill, through the dirt and the winding tunnels, and out into the sunlight before it can finally open its wings.

Some say that the caterpillar “tricks” the ants into doing this. I don’t know if I agree – I think it’s too small a thing to accuse of guile, don’t you?

With this in mind: Once upon a time, there were seven dwarves.

They lived and worked in the mountains, mining for gold and jewels and precious things. And one night, after a long day’s labour, they heard a knocking at the great stone doors of their mountain.

Outside, shivering and small, they found a human child.

I’m sure you can guess most of what she told them. Stepmothers were involved – it’s not important. What’s important was that each of the dwarves felt a dire and pressing need to care for the child, and they took her into their home, fed her, clothed her, and gave her a warm bed to sleep in. And many seasons passed around that mountain, with the dwarves raising the child as one of their own, until one autumn’s day.

The girl laid, slender and still, in a coffin of spun glass. And some weeks later, one of the dwarves had the idea to call for a prince. This was of course the sensible thing to do, and the prince of a nearby kingdom who listened to the story thought an ensorcelled girl would be a grand thing to rescue.

Poor devils. It feels cruel to judge them. But there were so many questions they could’ve asked – what was this stepmother’s name? Was she real? Did she exist? Who had made the glass coffin? Surely one of them must’ve thought of the question. And why did it grow more opaque with every passing day?

Were they wrong to trust?

I guess it doesn’t matter now.

The moment the prince stepped into the subterranean chamber with the glass coffin, it shivered with a twinkling, plinking noise. Threads of glass exploded into glittering, razor-edged confetti.

A claw split the great glass cocoon.

The thing that spilled out of it, hulking and huge, knew in the fog of its mind, in a base animal sense that screamed, that it was in a room too small for it to fit. It wanted up. It wanted out.

In front of it was some twiggy little thing holding a sword.

It took its first breath.

The flames were the colour of cornflowers.

The dwarves fled. The thing followed close behind, up, up, up through the stone and the winding tunnels, not to chase, not to hunt, but to get up, to get out, out, out–

It struck the great stone doors at a run. They crumbled like gingerbread. And then there was sunlight, and the open sky…

And it could finally open its wings.

Convergent evolution is a hell of a thing.

The dragon, of course, lived happily ever after with its loot of gold and jewels from a hastily abandoned dwarf mine. Being much bigger than a caterpillar, we could accuse it of tricking the dwarves who were kind to it, had taken it in, had fed and clothed and warmed it.

It probably wouldn't mind.

[melyzard]

The media banning is really starting to ramp up. (Source: Japanpower.com, Mar 23, 2025)

Maybe they won't arrest you for owning Persona 5 on Steam....but let's say you go to a protest or make some noise in public that's anti-government, or you just annoy someone in power (by, possibly, simply existing). And your house gets raided, your 'inappropriate depictions of a minor' get found, and now you're in front of the judge for child porn and people are not running to your defense because gosh, well, um, you're kinda making the movement look bad, you know?

Oh, and don't think anyone will be let off on technicalities - even if all the characters are above 18, if they *look* like minors (have you ever seen an anime or one of those waifu dating sims?), then it counts.

Yes, yes, more important things to worry about, real problems, blood being spilled, all true, all true but

You know. Just making conversation.

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

the small bundle covered in blankets felt heavy in kaiser’s hands. kaiser was by no means weak in; but when the previously crying baby was coaxed by your exhausted voice to sleep, millions of doubts weighed down on kaiser—even heavier than the weight of his father’s hands on kaiser’s neck when he was a child.

“i think she’s fond of you. she must have heard those conversations you had with her when she was still in my stomach.”

your small, almost inaudible voice brought your husband out of his trance. the soft blonde hair peeking out of the pale blue beanie—the hair most definitely being inherited from kaiser—were like golden rays of sun. kaiser looked down at you, sitting down on the bed you were currently lying down. kaiser moved his gaze to his daughter, who slept peacefully.

“i don’t know,” he swallowed, a tattooed hand gently caressing his daughter’s cheek. “am i…really cut out to be a father? what if i become just like him? what if i accidentally hurt her just like that piece of scum did with me? what if she hates me? what if—“

your eyes soften, remembering the days in your childhood with kaiser, when he was always playing with the stray dogs while soot and bruises, and sometimes even blood, ornamented his body. you’ll never forget the days when you were both 14, when he finally told you; his father’s treatment of him, his father’s constant drinking, how his mother left him, and how his goal was just…to be loved.

and that’s when you realized: he had no home—no an emotional one, at least. a boy who was never taught manners or how to survive or how to properly speak, a boy who was never taught what was good for him and what was bad for him. and he never even went to school either until bastard münchen taught classes.

you reached forward to reach his hand, kaiser once against moving his glance to you. “michael, you won’t. i know you won’t. you’re not him, michael. you’re you. and unlike when you were growing up, i won’t leave you or our daughter. ever.” you brought his tattooed hand up to your lips. “it’ll be hard, but im sure it will all turn out okay, michael.”

and suddenly kaiser feels a sting, tears beginning to pool at the brim of his eyes as his chest tightens. damn it, he didn’t even cry during your delivery…but when the two most important women—no, people, in his life are right in front of him, one of them looking at him like he’s the most precious treasure in the world, how could he not be vulnerable?

kaiser takes your hands and placed it on his chest—right where his heart is. he runs his thumb over the cool surface of your wedding ring on your finger, his daughter seemingly beginning to wake up, though still quiet.

“thank you for being in my life. i love you.”

———

to anyone who says “ooc” “kaiser would never do this” etc,

lemme just remind you that kaiser has stated MULTIPLE TIMES throughout the bastard münchen vs PXG match that his goal was just to be loved. another thing is that in kaiser’s official character profile (from the egoist bible), his type is described as “someone who’s beautiful, smart, and full of love”

(if anyone says “omg ness is literally his type” in the comments then im actually going to scream because i hate kainess with a passion. it’s so toxic and kaiser literally sees ness as a dog and ness’ so-called “feelings” for kaiser is just a result of manipulation. plus, ness doesn’t actually match kaiser’s type. ness is smart, yes, but ness has never been stated to be good looking in any way shape or form. in fact, judging from ness’ backstory, he might even be canonically ugly. plus, ness doesn’t ACTUALLY love kaiser. again, it’s just “feelings” that began to form from manipulation.)

[retiredteabag]

That’s all it takes?

Synopsis: you’ve worked alongside Gojo Satoru for years; he’s painfully arrogant, critical about everything, and infuriatingly competent at his job. Worst of all, he’s just as striking as everyone thinks. For once, someone looks your way, why is it he cares so much?

tags: lowkey enemies/rivals to lovers, reader has a thing for being praised, journalist au, unedited (sorry :P)

pt. 1?

my masterlist

You'd thought the intern was trying to get a good word out of you at first. It wasn't uncommon for aspiring journalists to do whatever they could to get their foot in the door of such a competitive industry. The fact that he had been accepted onto the office floor seemingly was not enough for him. Hey, you could appreciate a handworker.

The clicking of the keyboard directly before you could only be overshadowed by the usual smacking of gum from the editor who was absent today. Her vacant desk oddly quiet. You flipped through your notebook and added even more sticky notes to your monitor, reminders of all the tasks to complete this week.

You were just about as type A as a person could be, everything was done on time, and done well. You had made something of a name for yourself and the validation kept you going. You devoured praise like it was the only thing sustaining you. That was the type of attitude that landed you positions in the greatest opinion piece publisher in Japan.

You weren't the only one who was overly competitive; however, no, someone else had become well-known even beyond his article acclaim.

The sweet little interns watched that man now like hawks. The moment his boisterous presence entered the open floor of the office cubicles, eyes followed him with an anxious reverence reserved only for the brain behind the words so many bore witness to.

Satoru Gojo was a well-known creature, even outside of journalism, the press, and the news.

Today, of course, he was in one of those moods. He sauntered into the room with a casual arrogance of someone who knew full well that the earth continued to rotate because he demanded it to be so.

The meeting he had just left was running late, his afternoon had been disrupted and the chaos he had yet to dispel was surely about to be unleashed on some unsuspecting intern.

"I've worked here far too long for superiors to still be unable to summarize a damn meetinggg~" Gojo hummed around a mouthful of croissant he had stolen from the client table. The editor that typically sat beside you would have flinched at Gojo's current gesticulation mid-rant.

You missed the peace she brought you when Gojo came around. Crumbs fell as the man licked his fingers. "Wasting my time like that, someone's gotta let them go."

You spun in your chair, looking back to see if Yaga, the company's publishing editor-in-chief, the very man Satoru Gojo was badmouthing over a sip of smoothie, was hearing his insults.

You didn't even blink when the very 'superior' exited from the conference room, waving Gojo off. The interns seemed even more worried. "The office doesn't revolve around your snacking schedule, Gojo. If you want perfect synchronicity, you might as well quit."

The apprentices looked between each other and you smiled them off, silently telling them to get back to researching the projects they were supposed to be putting together.

"You would like that, wouldn't you?" Satoru squinted, judging your very existence with his gaze.

He sighed theatrically, lounging himself across an open swivel chair of the empty editors cubical as if sitting through an assembly was the greatest waste of his precious- "They should know how important my time is-"

You roll your eyes, cutting him off, "Oh yes, so terribly important that you're spending it eating and bitching to me."

If you were being wholly honest, the shareholders in that meeting should be grateful. You'd never say it aloud, but Satoru Gojo wasn't just a writer. He was a cultural phenomenon. In his early twenties, he had already been revered for his reporting and interviewing skills, his name had graced more publications post-grad than you had even after building your portfolio.

His rate per word was outrageous as well as his schedule: a true nightmare. The Tokyo Times was beyond lucky to have been able to keep him on the team for as long as they had.

He sighed, rolling his eyes, the drama queen. He reached across you, stealing one of your pens and spinning it around amidst his fingers. "'The only reason I haven't jumped ship is because it brings me." He glided out of the chair and leaned against your cubicle, sliding the pen along the decor you had there, observing it, "so much pleasure", you wince at his seductive tone, "to bring you…annoyance." You smack his hand before he can poke the fat of your cheek with the writing utensil.

Satoru grins, spinning away with your pen, scraping up a donut before making the way back to his office. His very own, if you were curious.

One of the trainees from earlier was watching this interaction. He had a look of shock on his face as if he couldn't imagine someone smacking The Satoru Gojo.

You'd like to imagine he just couldn't fathom such a well-revered writer being so immature, but alas, that was less likely.

If it was possible for someone to be more critical than yourself when it came to work, it was Satoru. He had this sadistic urge in him that made it impossible to not call out the mistakes of others. It stung. That was the truth, but you would rather he tell you his thoughts then lie to your face and laugh behind your back.

Working with him was more of a challenge than a motivation most days. The salary was a great motivation, though. Yaga and his team paid you well. More than that though, was the rage to outlive that white haired tantrum of a man.

You could see it in the way he smirked at you, in the way his eyes found yours when you would slip up, the way he never seemed to take you seriously. This might just be the worst aspect of your personality; you just couldn't help but want to impress people, even if they didn't respect you.

"He seems like fun to work alongside." One of the interns had left the side of his fellow novices. Making small talk, telling a joke.

You shrug at the young man, "Most can't tolerate him for longer than a fiscal quarter. I hope you have what it takes."

He looked down at his shoes suddenly, "Me too."

He was tall, or taller than you at least, sweet, and earnest. He dressed up for every day at the office, he was never late, and he greeted every employee by name - to put it simply, he made a good impression. You turn your chair to him, "How are you liking your internship, is it the experience you hoped for?"

He smiled again, and his eyes practically twinkled. "I'm very grateful for the experience, I'll continue to work hard."

"I have no doubt." You nodded encouragingly at him and turned to face the screen before you. You figured he would move onto his fellows, go work on his project maybe, but he stayed standing there for a moment too long.

He heaved a breath as if steeling himself to say something risky. "Actually, there's something I wanted to ask you."

He looked suddenly shy, "I've read a lot of your stuff, you've been a real inspiration to me, and being able to work here has been-"

You know where this is going, you give him an understanding nod. Reading off the name on his chest, you lean in conspiratorially, whispering "I'm sorry, I won't be able to sway the decisions on who gets offered jobs after your program is up. But you're a hard worker, I'm sure y-"

He startles suddenly, waving his hands frantically, "No! Oh, no, no, I'm not... asking for anything like that... I'm sorry I came off that way, I was just... well," He swallows, and you attempt to track his eyes as they wander, confused about what he could possibly want from you.

"I just... I admire you a lot. You're bright, and...you're beautiful...and I was actually wondering if I could buy you a meal sometime?" He sounded so unsure of himself but he was standing up straight, breathing through his nose.

You weren't sure what to say. You knew you weren't unattractive but to be completely frank, people didn't ask you out. You chalked it up to being intimidating or perpetually busy, or a control freak. Whatever the cause, you were not accustomed to people liking you in that way.

You flush.

"Oh..." You had to replay his words over and over again. Your mouth opened and closed, and you tried to weigh what he was asking. He was cute, but also… he was an intern at the company you worked for.

Before you could even formulate a response, you were jerked back to reality when the gentleman who had just so adamantly confessed his feelings made an "aagh!" noise.

Yaga was tugging him by the ear. "You, young man, better get back to work before I deduct points from your final presentation for fraternization."

He looked overcome with embarrassment, rubbing the back of his neck while apologies spilled from his mouth. Yaga flicked him gently before he could bow anymore and rolled his eyes your way.

Dumbstruck, you stared at the screen of your computer for a long while. A dozen tabs were open, your task bar was still full of items you needed to get to today, even so, you found yourself cupping your cheeks, feeling the blood that had pooled there.

"Please don't tell me that was your type."

You're not sure when he appeared, but Gojo Satoru was staring at you with discernment. He had a judgmental eyebrow raised and he was tongue-ing at his cheek.

"Jesus." You huff, stretching your jaw, trying to brush off the flush you felt atop your ears. "What on earth are you doing?"

You made a brave attempt to type something onto a notation sheet. Dispelling the embarrassment that came with someone actually liking you.

"What am I doing? Look at yourself, you're all sheepish over some kid hitting on you."

You choke, "He's not a kid! He's graduated."

Satoru squints at you now, moving even closer. "Oh my gosh," he pulls a 'I'm-grossed-out-by-you-but-intrigued-all-the-same' face and continues, "are you actually into younger guys?"

"No!" You pant, your hands spread. He wasn't even that much younger than you, but being pressed about anything romantic, especially from Gojo was embarrassing.

"What's with this face you're pulling then?" He tapped the pen he had so rudely stolen earlier atop the wall of your cubicle, "I've never seen you all-" he fake gags, "-shy like this."

You huff, trying to find the words. "I'm-" you scoff, trying again, "not all of us are so used to...that sort of thing."

He straightens up suddenly, pulling his lips together, "Are you saying like... being flirted with?" He chuckles at the idea and you grit your teeth.

Breathing in, you try to laugh, trying to sound nonchalant, but it comes out annoyed. "Yes, Gojo, not everyone has people falling at their feet all the time."

Have I mentioned that Satoru, on top of being an incredibly talented creative, was a painfully striking individual to look at? Well, sure, he was very symmetrical. And tall. And he had...nice teeth. Veins too. It’s fair to say he wasn't lacking when it came to attention.

"So...you like him then." Somehow, he seemed offended at the idea.

"No, not necessarily." Was he trying to insinuate you were some kind of creep? He couldn't have been more than two years your junior. "But he was nice..."

"Nice?" Satoru wheezed. You didn't move. This whole interaction was ticking you off. Gojo's guffaws continued until he noticed you were just silently staring at him. "Are you serious?" He wiped a faux tear.

Why this was so upsetting for you, you couldn't quite place. "Yes, Gojo." You had a bit of an insulted tone to your voice, you wondered why he didn't seem to care about wasting his precious time with you suddenly.

"What... that's all it takes with you?"

Gears began to turn in Satorus' brain as he observed you now, taking in the new information.

"Normal people like niceness, Satoru, crazy, I know." You refuse to meet his gaze but he stands infuriatingly still, arms crossed, before his head canters to the side as if considering the concept for the first time.

"hmm..."

He shifts on his feet. You grow more tense by the second, waiting for his next snide comment. He clicks the pen a few times before slowly, setting it back on your desk. And then he was finally gone.

[cheriladycl01]

hey babe💗 could i please request a stedad!fernando x stepdaughter!reader? like her reader doesn't have a very good father figure and she's really into figure skating so when her mom starts dating fernando he's like learning how to be a good dad for her he could like learn about figure skating and happily show her skating to the other drivers on the grid just be like the father she deserves it's okay if you don't do platonic requests :))

I’ll be better for you - Fernando x Step-Daughter! Reader

Plot - Fernando has the biggest girl dad energy. And he’s never been able to use that until he met your mother and you came along.

Growing up, your father had been incredibly absent and he was never around. You knew off him and you saw him on rare occasions, but he always seemed too busy.

Your mother filed for a divorce with him when you were 14 and even though you'd been expecting it eventually you didn't take to it very well. You were angry at your dad and couldn't understand why he was never there for you.

The time it upset you the most was when you'd really got into ice-skating because it was your only memory with him, once a year in winter he'd take you skating. You thought it was a hobby of his and tried to get into it more assuming he'd be around more if you took on one of his hobbies.

However he never turned up for your competitions or tournaments and it broke both yours and your mothers hearts. When a competition went well, you just wanted to run up and hug him but he was never there, your mood immedleity slumped from false promises as your mum attempted to apologise on his behalf as you snatch your phone to see the shitty 'Sorry got caught up with work, ill be there next time' text.

When your mum moved on, you pretty much cut contact with your dad happy that it was just you and her because at the end of the day she was all your thought you needed.

But then she met him.

And you werent the nicest to him at first, being an angsty teen and seeing a new man with your mother after someone who claimed he loved her was so very absent.

He attempted to form a bond with you, considering he loved your mother more than anything and you could genuinely see how happy he made her.

But he too was absent at first. And you got it, he was this big name F1 driver who went from the sands of Bahrain one week to the Cherry Blossoms of Japan the next. But unlike with your dad, he never missed anything your mother asked him to come to.

A work christmas dinner? He was there. Parents Evening? He was there. Grocery Shopping? He was there! And you saw the change in your mother. She felt appreciated and loved. But it was still hard for you to warm up to him.

He understood this all too well.

He tried to come to any important thing your mum asked him too that was to do with you. He was at every ice skating competition you had and he would try his hardest to pick you up from school, despite your initial embarrsement of the boys in your year who fauned over your mums boyfriends car.

He was in the house more and more and you observed him.

The way he'd always offer you his food, or to help you clean your bedroom when you came down overwhelmed. If you wanted to go shopping but your friends had told you they werent up for it, he'd offer to go out with you.

And you started to fall in love with the idea of him being more than your mum's boyfriend, or a stable male figure in your life.

This idea was solidified when you'd been invited to come to a race with him while it was your half term. He didn't know when you were going to get there but you were adamant to see the whole weekend and surprise him. When you walked up seeing him sat outside the Aston Martin MotorHome with a few other drivers you were close enough to hear their conversations.

"Yeah look this is her at her last competition, she did so well im so proud of her but she was robbed of first place i think the judges were biased, like look, look at that spin!" he says as he moves the phone closer for Lewis, Lando and Carlos to see.

"Woah, she's really good! Have you suggested like ... her going further?" Lewis asks looking at you spin.

"Mmmm we've talked about it! And she was really excited when i said is support her the whole way, which is nice as sometimes i cant tell if im being a good enough role model for her" he sighs, swiping through some pictures he had of you or the two of you and your mother.

"Dude, by the looks of it... thats your family now!" Lando expressed.

"I know, but i don't want to force my way in. Im happy ... just being there for her yano?" Fernando smiles and you decide now is a good time to make yourself know despite trying to hold back your tears.

"Hey!" you call out jogging up and Fernando spins round face lighting up as he hears you.

"Y/N?" he exclaims looking over you before pulling you into a tight hug and kissing your forehead.

"W-What are you doing here?" he asks, looking over you.

"I asked mum if we could come early and she let me have the day off so we could get here earlier!" you grin at the older man and he pulls you back into a hug.

"Where is she?" he asks looking round with his eyes wide at the promise of your mum being close.

"Just putting the bags in the room, she thought id want to come see you!" you grin and he smiles.

"And did you? Want to come see me!" he asks, and you can tell theres a bit of insecurity behind their so you do something you haven't dared to do in the years he's been with your mother. Even once he married her.

"Of course i did! Now come on dad! I want a drink!" you smile taking his hands, you don't miss his friends faces light up at what you called him. And even he's a little stuck for a minute before he follows you.

The rest of the weekend was looking good, apart from the fact that it was seeming like a wet weekend where anything could happen. Fernando had been looking quick all weekend, due to the specific motivation of his family being there.

"You're looking quick this weekend!" you grin as you have lunch with your mum and Fernando.

"Yeah. I've got to impress both my girls don't i?" he grins and you nod enthusiastically.

"Erm, i have a competition coming up, its in three weeks. Do you think you can make it?" you ask in a slight mutter, knowing you had to bring it up at some point and the sooner the better.

"You know i will! What's its for?" he asks taking a bite into his wrap .

"To see if i can get into the Olympics" you say nervously.

"WHAT?" he exclaims his eyes lighting up.

"Y-eah" you offer, trying not to maintain eyecontact with him.

"Oh my god! Why - why didn't you tell me this is incredible Y/N!" he says happily taking your hand and pulling you closer to him to hug you.

You felt so loved around Fernando and you knew that this weekend was the weekend you had to ask him.

And that proved easier the minute he got a podium! You'd involved the whol Aston Martin Team in it. The plan was to stand behind the camera man while they take the group photo of the podium position and points position for Lance with a sign asking him to officialy be your dad.

You had the paper work, you had it for months actually but you hadnt had the courage to ask him in fear he wouldn't want to.

So here you were, sign hidden behind your back as you nervously watch the team get photos. Someone was filming Fernandos reaction and someone was filming you, it was all so exhilarating and nerve wracking at the same time.

You held the sign up and Fernando looks at you before reading it over taking in the words. He cocks his head to the side in confusion before you hold up the papers. His eyes widen and he shoots up nearly knocking over the trophy until a team member grabs it as he jumps over all the stuff in front of them.

"Are you serious?" he asks looking over the papers to see the legitimacy of them.

"Yes" you say in a whisper. He picks you up twirling your round kissing your forehead.

"Yes of course. But i dont need papers to show you ill be there for you when you need me!" he says, tears in his normally stoic eyes.

You hold him tightly, sobbing at the relief he had said yes. Your mum stays to the side filming the moment letting you two have your moment before you and Fernando reach out to have her join the hug. He kisses her on the lips before holding you both closely.

"My girls" he smiles.

Taglist:

@littlebitchsposts @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @daemyratwst @lauralarsen @the-untamed-soul @thewulf @itsjustkhaos @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @summissss @gulphulp @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhhhh @georgeparisole @youcannotcancelquidditch @tallbrownhairsarcastic @ourteenagetragedy @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @dark-night-sky-99 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle @laneyspaulding19 @malynn @landosgirlxoxo @marie0v @yourbane @teamnovalak @nikfigueiredo @fionaschicken @0picels0 @tinydeskwriter @ironmaiden1313 @splaterparty0-0 @formula1mount

[c4tluver02]

meet up

wc: 1.9k

summary: After dating for a few months Steve decides its time you meet the kids. He can only hope it goes well.

warnings: none!

You and Steve have been officially going out for 2 months. Which for Steve this was pretty big. Normally he will see girls for a hookup or a few dates but nothing lasting even a month. And that's because you weren’t just some hook up or a few dates to Steve, you were perfection at its finest. Never failing to make him laugh, quick to ask him how his day was, always taking care of him. You were the girl of his dreams. And when you call him for your nightly call and all he talks about is his day with the kids he figures it might be time for you to actually meet them. 

Normally he would be a little nervous, not knowing how someone would react to the big group of kids. Each one loud and quick to snap back, it was a lot to take in. To fully accept him and his family, never taking one without the other. However, this time was different. This time he isn't scared that you'll run away or that you’ll judge him because of how much he cares. 

So when he asks you if he could set up a day for you all to meet you immediately say yes. Now your own mind is racing with thoughts. You know how important these people are to Steve. You can hear it in his voice when he talks about them, or how he rubs his temples when reciting back to you what one of them was going through. The amount of love he had for his family was evident. Which brings up a little voice in the back of your head screaming that they need to like you. 

-

It was the day you were gonna meet the group. Steve invited everyone over to his place for a get together promising that he would have food and games. When he opened the door to see you in a pretty little dress his heart began pounding right away. 

“Hi sweetheart, y’look gorgeous.” He says it as he grabs your hand leading you inside, getting to see the back of you as you walk in. 

“Thank you Stevie.” You say with a flushed face. You wanted to look your best. But Steve could tell you were a little nervous from the way that you were playing with the hem of your dress. 

“They’re gonna love you, y’know that right?” It shouldn't shock you anymore that Steve can read your mind but it somehow still does. His hands grabbing yours as he leans in for a kiss. 

You hum at him in response, deep in the kiss. You had shown up a little early, trying to let Steve calm your nerves before everyone starts flooding in. 

“Do you want a drink? I have food on the grill right now.” Steve walks into the kitchen getting ready to serve you whatever you ask for.

“Just water please. You’re cooking on the grill?” You ask. For some reason the idea of Steve cooking food for everyone does something for you. It’s very domestic, as if this is his job that he knows he’s supposed to do. 

“Yeah, it was the only way I could convince them all to come here. They wanted to meet up at the arcade.” Steve says, rolling his eyes as he fills your cup with water. 

“We could have met them up there if that's what they wanted.” The way you say it so sweetly makes Steve’s chest warm. You’re always thinking of others. 

“Baby you're very sweet but I think the last place you’d wanna meet them at is a loud arcade where they barely listen to you ‘cause they are too busy playing games.” You laughed at his response knowing he's right. 

“What are you making on the grill anyways?” Your tone is curious but really you just wanna see your boyfriend in front of that grill. Shirt slightly unbuttoned with some chest hair peeking out, the sun landing on him just right that the gold in his hair pops out. 

“Just some hot dogs, thanks for reminding me though I almost forgot.” Steve says as he jogs to the grill. You watch him as you lean on the sliding glass door. 

Luckily you were holding the door open for Steve to hear the doorbell ring. Your heart is beating a little faster now that the moment is arriving. 

When Steve opens the front door he is met with loud voices. 

“I told you that wearing flip flops and riding a bike was stupid.” A boy with curly hair said. 

“Yeah about as stupid as your face.” Snapped back a boy with black hair. 

“Hey guys. C'mon in.” Steve says interrupting their loud argument. He looks up at you with big eyes and a grin as if to say ‘here they are!’

You smile back at him ready to be introduced. 

But as Steve closes the door a girl with brown hair comes up to you. “You’re very pretty.” Her voice is more quiet than the rest of them and she even looks shy herself. 

“Thank you, you're beautiful!” She smiles from your response. 

“Okay, so this is El.” Steve says as he points to the girl closest to you. “Then that's Max, Lucus, Mike, Dustin, and Will.” He puts his hand over some of their heads as he says it and they all stare back at you. 

“Woah you're like, totally out of Steve's league.” Says the boy you now know to be Mike.  

Steve pushes past him rolling his eyes. “Gee thanks guys. Anything else?” He’s now standing by you with his hand on the small portion of your back.

“Yeah, where is the food?” Dustin asks. The boys next to him nod their heads in agreement.

“Do you ever think about anything else other than food?” Steve lets you go, heading toward the kitchen. 

“You know what I shouldn't have to think about Steve? Where the food is. You’d think it would be ready for us.” Dustin says as you all follow him. It makes you smile hearing his little comebacks, only knowing about them from Steve's dramatic retellings. 

“It’s finished, I just need to get it off the grill, get plates out and we'll get it ready.” Steve gives you a quick kiss on your temple as he flies by you to go outside. You feel a little invisible as they all get to work getting things out. Knowing his house a little better than you do.

“So you and Steve are really end game huh?” Max asks you as she opens a new bag of chips.

“Oh- well I.. I mean I hope so.” It was a loaded question to ask someone you’d just met but subtlety doesn't seem to be a word in their vocabulary. 

“I can tell he really likes you. He gave us a whole speech about how we have to be on our best behavior around you.” Lucas says behind her. 

You smile at his comment, finding it extremely sweet on Steve's part to ask that of them. 

“But obviously they don't know how to do that.” Max rolls her eyes saying it loudly to make sure the rest of them hear her. 

Steve comes in with the food ready for it to be plaited up. The kids are quick to get things going, seemingly very hungry. 

“Do your parents not feed you at home or what?” Steve jokes, noticing how rambunctious they are. 

You smile at his joke and Max and El lock eyes knowingly. “Wow Steve, you finally found someone who laughs at your jokes.” 

“Steve has me wrapped around his finger a little bit.” You say cheekily, getting your own food ready. 

He smiles at your response, happy to be in the moment. You seem to be catching up with everyone well. He gives you a kiss and you hear little fake gags in the background. A laugh comes out of you, interrupting the kiss. 

“You think you could not make out in front of the food?” The kids all giggle.

“Yeah the food I made you?” Steve bites back.

When you all settle down at his dining room table it quiets down. Everyone digging into their own plate of food. 

“So how did you and Steve meet?” Will asks with a mouth full of food.

“Ew dude. Don't talk with a mouth full.” Steve parents him like he's his own kid. 

“We met when he was at work and I asked for his help on a movie. I had just moved here so I didn’t know what to do and then Steve asked if I needed help moving and I did.” You tell them, answering his question. 

“That's it? He just asked you out the first time he met you?” Mike asks with wide eyes.

“No, I helped her move and then after hanging out a bit I asked her on a date.” Steve specifies.

“Oh you hung out huh?” Dustin jokes winking poorly at him.

“Anyways, then after a few dates I asked her to be my girlfriend.” Steve finishes with a smile on his face as he looks at you.

“Steve was actually really helpful when I first got here. I didn’t have anyone here so I am extremely grateful I met him when I did.” You explain simply. But Steve can barely take his eyes off of you. If only you knew how grateful he felt to have you. He'll have to tell you all about it when the kids leave.  

“It was like fate then?” El asks. 

You let out a small giggle at her question. You never really thought about the fate of it all but she was right. 

“Yeah, I guess it was.” Steve answers before you could, intertwining his hands with yours. 

Everyone at the table can see the love that's radiating off of the two of you. The way Steve is so open to show his feelings about you makes your heart flutter. To be clingy and affectionate is how you knew Steve to be, but in front of people so close to him he still acts the same.

You all finish the food and the kids ask Steve if they could go outside and roast marshmallows. He automatically does as he's asked and lights the campfire. The sun had mostly set, leaving only a little gap of light. 

Lucas and Max sit closely as El and Mike follow suit. Dustin's marshmallow catches on fire and he freaks out a little bit. Steve, quick to fix everything, blows it out leaving a completely burnt and charcoaled marshmallow. 

Steve handles toasting up your mellow and his, and when he gives it to you it's burnt just enough. How he does everything perfectly you will never know. You handle putting it with the chocolate and the cracker, making it a sandwich. 

By the end of the night you're on Steve’s lap and the kids are all sprawled out. Sitting on cushions from the outside chairs, talking over each other as laughs come out of you and Steve. You are so relaxed in the moment, basking in the feeling of being around people. Steve gives your thigh a gentle squeeze and you kiss his cheek. Wrapping your arm around his neck and threading your hands through his hair. 

Steve was thankful everything went so well but he knew it would when it comes to you.

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: again, a request :)

summary: delivery driver!nat, artist!reader (not part of the request, but i decided to add it anyway), g!p nat

warnings: brief smut (handjob), implied sex, forgetting to eat (not sure if this needs to be a warning but i’m adding it anyway), mildly creepy behavior but only if you squint

word count: 7k

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Hands splattered with yellow paint. A white overall. Messy hair and the smell of turpentine mixing with some expensive perfume.

Mundane things, but she won't be able to get them out of her head.

Natasha never knows what kind of people she's going to run into while doing late-night deliveries and, frankly, she usually doesn't care. All she wants is the money and maybe a solid tip — that's it. She does it for the extra cash, not because she's desperate for even more social interactions.

She's been doing this for a while now. Being a car mechanic at a small shop, her salary is far from sufficient. The $20 an hour don't stretch far, barely manage to fully cover her rent, so she decided to pick up a few extra shifts at night. Bless DoorDash for making those quite flexible as well, otherwise she'd probably be living in the streets now.

Again, she doesn't care who her customers are. She meets all kinds of people like this, and she's seen everything from teenage boys ordering Chick-fil-A for their 2am-gaming sessions to lesser known celebrities who can't be bothered to cook. Alcoholics and single dads, college students and people who just got home from partying. In the end, their faces will all be a blur, anyway.

Your name doesn't stand out when she accepts the delivery. All Natasha notices is that she's never delivered to this address before — a somewhat remote area, up on a hill, no neighbors and nothing to do. She doesn't question what kind of person would live in a place like that, even though she maybe should. What she also should do (but doesn't) is worry about driving up there by herself. It's the middle of the night, nobody else lives up there, and the cabin looks as run-down as it does abandoned.

When the motorcycle's headlights die down, so does the last source of light she has. All the house's windows are closed and dark. Judging by the looks of it, she's delivering food to ghosts.

Natasha swings her leg off the motorcycle and grabs the paper bag from the little top-box. She notices the residual grease on her hands a second too late, but decides it isn't important. The paper bag is full of stains either way.

Once she steps on the porch, a tiny light turns on. It flickers pathetically, barely holding on at this point, but provides enough light for Natasha to see your face when you open the door.

Doe eyes and paint on your cheeks, hair pulled back carelessly. Hands that look like they have enough color on them to make even the grayest days a little more colorful. Suddenly, she regrets not taking a closer look at your name. She would've remembered.

"DoorDash", she says, holding out the paper bag.

"Right!", you say, face lighting up and eyes turning more lively. Natasha feels her thoughts falter. "Totally forgot. Lemme just-"

You turn and, just like that, disappear in the darkness of the house. Natasha pauses, still holding onto your order, before snapping out of it. She glances into the hallway and tries to locate a single source of light, but finds nothing.

That is, until you seem to appear out of thin air again. She flinches slightly.

"Thanks", you say, wiping your hands on a rag. "Had trouble finding your way up here? I know one guy who got lost in the forest. Somehow managed to take the wrong exit. Never saw that pizza."

"No, no issues", she mumbles, handing you the food and stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "It's dark in there."

"Oh, yeah." You nod and grab her hand. She stares at you, stunned, and then you smear the rag on the back of her hand. The streak of paint that's left behind glows faintly. "Glow-in-the-dark paint!"

"Seriously?"

"Looks great, doesn't it? I wanted to paint my bathroom with that, but decided against it."

Natasha hums, looking at the paint again. Her eyes meet yours. You give her an expectant look, as if you're waiting for something she can't place. All she's doing is deliver your food, after all. But you keep staring, so she shakes her head.

Enough. She has at least half a dozen more deliveries to get through before she can call it a night.

"Okay", she says, slowly, and steps back. "Well, uhm, enjoy your food."

You nod, already tearing open the bag of fast food and grabbing a fry. "Don't get lost on your way back."

She glances at you, seeming a little distracted. Then she nods and waves absently, already on her way to her motorcycle. The door closes behind her, a soft thud that cuts through the quiet of the night, and she tracks the vehicle where she left it.

It's an old, beat-up thing, but it's reliable. It gets her where she needs to be, it allows her to earn some extra money. She's thankful for her Harley, she really is. But in that moment, when she's hopping on her old Sportster and grabbing the handlebars, she wishes it wasn't the reason she's able to leave again.

. . .

Can doing what you love make you starve?

Maybe. Possibly. Actually? Pretty damn likely. That's your conclusion after working on a few new projects made you forget about eating for almost an entire day.

Aside from a bowl of Cheerios in the morning, topped with a bunch of sugar, you haven't eaten anything all day. Instead, you've been mixing colors and washing paintbrushes and filling your sketchbook. Doodles on walls and paper scraps on the floor, paint in your hair and a pencil between your teeth. One foot resting on the edge of your seat, you tug at the straps of your overall. The color on your fingernails isn't nail polish — it's paint.

You lean forward and inspect the little sketch again. At this point, you're not even sure what this is going to be. Another scrap? A comic strip? No way to know until you're at least halfway there. Maybe you won't know even then.

Music is making the floors vibrate. In front of you are a couple of cups. Some contain tea, others water you've been cleaning your paintbrushes with. You glance at them and resist the urge to take another leap of faith. You've had one too many sips of murky, paint-infused regret.

You turn toward the sketch again, but your stomach rumbling distracts you from the thick lines of charcoal and graphite. You sigh and shift, trying to ignore it and get back into that creative, pulsating headspace again, but it's no use. Your body is hungry.

As usual, you're not in the mood to cook. You're working, and you're scared of getting into another creative block, so you open the DoorDash app and order one of your favorites.

When Natasha looks at her phone, it's not just your name that stands out. It's the address. It brings back images of vines on the sides and tangling around porch railings, winding dirt paths, paint on the back of her hand and a heart that won't stop thrumming.

There's been a lot of this over the past few weeks. At first, it was just a coincidence — due to you ordering food at the most ungodly hours, not many drivers are available. Natasha is one of the few who are desperate enough to work past midnight. Just bad timing, in the end. Or good, depending on how you look at it.

Then, it started to feel like more. She's not sure why, or how, but it did.

It was the same for you. After a few nights of being too distracted and sleep-deprived to notice anything, you finally caught onto the fact that, hey, you'd been getting the same driver over and over again. And hey, you like that driver, and it's not just some case of classical conditioning due to the yummy food, but actually more than just that.

Natasha noticed as well. And now, seeing your name and address on the screen, your order up for grabs, she taps on 'accept delivery'.

The route to your house is familiar by now. The lack of light doesn't disrupt her ability to find her way to your porch anymore. The paper bag in her hands has ceased to merely be a way to earn more money.

You open the door and, as basically always, give her that slightly absent smile you tend to sport. Eyes just a little distant, like you're constantly chasing some cloud of thought in your head, and hands and cheeks smudged with some kind of art medium — charcoal, paint, ink. Natasha can't help but stare, her own forearms oil-smudged but concealed by her jacket.

"Hey", she eventually says, holding out the paper bag. "Your food."

"You were quick this time", you say, grabbing the bag and putting it aside. "No traffic? Or were you just that eager to get here?"

"A bit of both", she says. She's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You do tip quite generously."

You hum, eyes subtly tracing along her arms. They're hidden by her leather jacket, but you can tell she gets some sort of physical exercise. Workouts or something. Maybe manual labor. Whatever it is — it's working.

"Driving into the middle of bumfuck nowhere should have its perks."

"Oh, I can think of a few."

You shoot her a quick smile. "Hm", you say, briefly glancing into the hallway. Natasha follows your gaze and spots a half-finished painting. She decides not to comment on it, but the colors distract her for a moment. "So...any more deliveries tonight?"

"Huh? Oh, yes." Natasha nods, spinning her keys around her pointer finger. "Still got to get through a couple."

Tilting your head, you let your eyes linger. She tilts her head right back at you, but much more subtly. The air between you heats up, despite the chilly October air seeping into the hallway. Sparks fly and bodies subconsciously move closer. Just a tiny, harmless step. Nothing to worry about.

"Pity. I was going to offer you a fry", you say, peeling some dried paint off your thumb. "But I can't keep you from your adoring customers, can I?"

"Probably not", Natasha agrees, pushing off the doorframe and taking a step back again. It's getting late, and she needs to get her ass back on her motorcycle. Flirting with a customer probably isn't the smartest move, either. "Though 'adoring' isn't exactly a word I'd use for them."

"Why not?", you say, watching her walk back to her motorcycle. A black, rugged thing that makes perfect sense for her. "You're always on time."

"Maybe that's only your experience", she counters. "Like you said — eager to get here."

You lift your eyebrows. Natasha sits on the old Harley and lets the engine roar, a sound that cuts through the quiet night sharply. You can barely see her, that's how dark it is outside. But then the motorcycle's headlights come on and you feel your heartbeat quicken.

"Drive safe", you call out once you've pulled yourself together.

"Always do", she calls back.

As she drives off, you can't help but wonder whether it's still just a coincidence at this point.

. . .

There's a thin line between being romantic and being a creep.

You may or may not have been toeing that very line.

Ever since noticing Natasha works the night shifts, you started ordering food later and later. It went from 11pm to midnight, then to half past midnight. 1am followed, then quarter past.

Why? To allow her to linger.

What you don't know is that Natasha's been doing the same. Maybe even worse. She scans the orders, looking for yours. She doesn't even think about it anymore — it's just instinct.

With each delivery, she stays longer. Stalls. She lingers in the doorway, her voice hushed and raspy, silently trying to figure out what colors you used based on the stains on your hands and face.

And with each delivery, you become more used to seeing her. It turns into a routine, something normal. Like waking up to the movie posters taped to your bedroom ceiling and listening to the owls at night, you start to expect it. That shows a few weeks later, when Natasha pops up to deliver your birria tacos.

"Where were you yesterday?", you ask, sleepy and groggy, and grab the greasy paper bag. She lifts her eyebrows.

"You didn't order anything yesterday."

You pause and look up, blinking slowly. It's nearly 2am, and you really need to sleep. But you've been up, waiting to order something and have Natasha deliver it.

"You sure?"

She smiles faintly. "Didn't see your name anywhere. I'm pretty sure, yes."

"Oh." Your face falls and you scratch your cheek. The dried watercolor on it is irritating your skin. "I think I forgot about dinner, then."

"That's concerning."

You wave your hand dismissively. "Happens all the time", you say. "Maybe I need someone to remind me."

Natasha stops in her tracks when you give her an expectant look. There's no way you're serious, right?

But you are. You grab your phone and hand it to her. She looks at the screen, smudged and cracked, before glancing at you again.

"You deliver my food all the time, anyway", you argue, ignoring her soft sigh. "Why not cut out the middleman? Much more practical."

"And the reminding you-thing?", she asks, already typing in her number.

"That was a joke."

"It didn't sound like one. Here." She hands you your phone back and crosses her arms. You tuck the device into the pocket of your overall. "For emergencies, right?"

"Of course", you say, smiling. The exhaustion seems to have disappeared from your face.

It's a lie, and you both know it, but Natasha can't find it in herself to care.

. . .

"Seriously?"

"I ran out of charcoal."

"I had to drive all the way across town", she points out. "Plus, my number was supposed to be for emergencies only."

You lift your chin, silently challenging her. She doesn't seem too impressed, though, but the look in her eyes tells you she doesn't mind this as much as she pretends to.

"Food emergencies", she adds. "Not art emergencies."

"You still went and brought it."

Natasha only partially succeeds at biting back a half-frustrated, half-fond noise, and shoves the plastic bag into your arms.

The words do it yourself next time are on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't utter them. God forbid she has to quit stopping by your house.

You peek into the bag and hum approvingly. Natasha watches you, first unmoving, then reaches out to touch the blue paint on your cheek. She swipes her thumb across it and smudges it further.

You look up, staring. She shrugs.

"Missed a spot."

"Very considerate", you say, lifting your hand to let your fingertips ghost across your cheek. Red and blue create purple.

Natasha shifts, but doesn't step away. Her eyes trace your face. You want her to stay, and she doesn't want to leave.

"No more bullshit", she adds. "Otherwise, I'll start expecting much bigger tips."

"You drive a hard bargain", you reply, cocking your head. "Can't promise anything, though."

She sighs, but the tiny smile betrays her. She can think of worse things than getting more excuses to see you.

"You're spoiled", she states. "How come you're always up this late, anyway? It's, like, 2am."

You shrug, turning on the spot and sauntering into the living room. Natasha, to your frustration, stays glued to her spot in the hallway.

"Can't sleep", you say, crouching in front of the large sheet of paper and tearing open the new charcoal. "Working on something."

She hums, trying to catch a glimpse of you and what you're doing. She can see the corner of a paper, covered in a bunch of comic strips. Then, you crawl forward on your knees and your head comes into view.

"I'm surprised I see no coffins in here."

"Huh?"

"You know. Always up at night, afraid of the sun."

You lift your head, momentarily puzzled — you're spacing out already, and you're sleep deprived, and this late, nothing seems to make sense. Then, the meaning behind her words registers.

"You're asking if I'm a vampire?", you say, sitting on your knees and wiping your face with the back of your hand. Natasha's lips twitch as she sees you smudge the charcoal there further.

"It'd make sense", she replies. "Now you're refusing to answer, too. Guess there must be something to it."

"Well", you say, wiping your hands on your overall, "let me bite you and find out."

Natasha malfunctions for a solid three seconds. Once she's gotten her bearings, she rolls her eyes and knocks on the wooden door. You look up from your project and tilt your head.

"Deliveries?"

"Yeah", she says. "Two more, then I'm done for tonight."

You nod, disappointed but not ready to argue. You get up and pad back into the hallway. You're not even sure why — she can find her way back outside by herself, obviously.

Natasha keeps her eyes on you. Her hands are in the pockets of her jeans, red strands of hair framing her face. She sees the charcoal on your bottom lip and wonders what kissing you would taste like.

"I'll text you", you say, rubbing your lip to get rid of the charcoal.

Emergencies only, she wants to say. She decides against it.

She steps back, adjusting her jacket. She should leave. She needs to leave. Somehow, she can't bring herself to. She just stands there, watching as you shift your weight from one foot to the other, the light from inside catching on the paint smudges along your collarbone.

"See you", she says, voice lower.

"Yeah", you mumble, eyes on her.

She finally forces herself to turn around and step outside. The cold night air cuts through her jacket, but she barely registers it. She swings one leg over the motorcycle and puts on her helmet, then waits.

You're still in the door, the golden light spilling out from inside framing your silhouette.

Natasha shakes her head and kicks the bike to life.

The roar of the engine fades into the night, and you close the door.

. . .

Having your motorcycle break down in the rain is less than ideal.

Natasha swings her leg off the bike, frustration etched into her features, and crouches down beside it. She filled up on gas right before leaving, so that can't be the issue. She checks the cables and wiring, inspects the spark plugs, takes a look at the battery. Once she's done that, she curses and kicks the tire.

The battery's dead. She's screwed.

Running her hand through her wet hair — of course she had to forget her helmet today —, she looks at your house in the distance. It's almost two more miles, and it's pouring rain, but she's got your In-N-Out order in the top-box and, truthfully, she‘s itching to see you.

She tries starting the bike one more time, even if it's hopeless. The battery's dead, which means the motorcycle isn't getting anywhere. Accepting her fate, she grabs the handlebars and starts pushing.

Wet hands slip on metal, rain drips down her face. Her jacket is soaked, as is her hoodie. Her boot briefly gets stuck in mud. Raindrops feel like dozens of tiny whips against her cheeks.

By the time she's gotten up the hill and to your house, half an hour has passed. She's soaked to the bone, dripping wet, out of breath, her arms hurting — and somehow, she doesn't care about any of that. She grabs the paper bag from the top-box and makes her way to your porch. Cold, reddened knuckles meet old wood.

You open the door and stare at her.

Drenched, out of breath, her once light gray hoodie now the shade of cracked pepper. Water drips from the red strands of hair that are framing her face. Clutching the takeout bag like it's life or death, her green eyes staring right back into yours.

For a moment, neither of you move.

When she lowers her gaze to the floor, a puddle forming on the wooden porch beneath her, you jump forward and cup her face.

Kissing her feels like second nature. Her lips are cold and wet when they press against yours. Her cheeks are cold, and she smells like a mixture of perfume and rain-soaked clothes.

You tug her inside, only pulling away slightly. She's still out of breath, but for a different reason now.

She sneezes, turning her head to try and hide it, but you notice anyway. You help her out of her jacket and steer her to the couch. She sits down and off comes her dripping wet hoodie. Her shirt is soaked as well, so off it goes as well. Fingertips brushing against skin, you notice how cold she is.

"You're insane", you say, returning with a towel. Natasha glances at it and subtly raises her eyebrows when she spots the paint stains on it, but you've already started toweling her hair dry. "You'll get pneumonia!"

"I'll be fine", she says dismissively. "Just a little rain. My bike broke down."

"You could've called", you mutter, rubbing her hair with the towel. "Or texted. I would've called a taxi or something."

Natasha goes silent. She didn't even consider that option. Maybe part of her wanted to prove something. Hopefully, she succeeded. If not, this may have all been for nothing.

You go upstairs to grab some clothes from your room. Natasha stays on the couch, her eyes scanning her surroundings. She expected art supplies, many of them, and she also expected some messiness. But she didn't think it'd be so...comfortable. Lived-in. Warm, despite the chaos.

Paint splatters on wooden floorboards and half-finished paintings leaning against the walls. Charcoal sketches and pastel doodles, postcards on the walls. Mismatched furniture — most of it thrifted — and glass paint on the massive window. A teddy, with a knitted dress on it.

She smells tea and turpentine, with a hint of something floral woven into the unique smell. A glance at the dining table tells her it's coming from a vase full of lilies.

You return, bare feet padding against stair steps, and walk back to Natasha's side. You hold out a sweater for her to put on, nodding in encouragement, but she grabs your waist and pulls you into her lap instead.

It's unexpected, but not unwelcome. She tugs the sweater out of your hand and tosses it aside, then kisses you again.

Fingerprints of paint stain her face.

. . .

You don't stop ordering things. In fact, you only start to order more.

You know you're being an annoying little shit. It's clear as day, and your chats prove it.

You: bring me more

washi tape pls? — 1.04am

Natasha: you're fucking

kidding — 1.04am

You: the clear one with

the stars :) — 1.05am

Natasha: this isn't a

convenience store. — 1.05am

You: it is if you bring

me what i want — 1.06am

And, half an hour later, she was in front of your door. There was a striped bag in her hands.

Once she saw your smile, she'd forgotten all about her complaints.

"This is the last time", she said, letting you lead her into the house. You tilted your head up to kiss her jaw. "Don't even try to butter me up. No more running errands for you."

You know she doesn't mind, though. One night, as you're kneeling on the floor and gluing magazine cutouts to a painting, someone knocks. You get up and open the door and, oh surprise, it's Natasha.

The first thing you notice is that she looks exhausted. Circles under her eyes, her face even paler than usual. The poor excuse of a paper bag she's clutching is crumpled and grease-stained.

"You order anything?", she asks.

Of course not. You never order on Tuesdays. Not anymore, at least — it's the only night Natasha has off.

You tilt your head in silent response. Her jaw clenches, she shifts on her feet and drums her fingers against her thigh, and you finally decide to stop torturing her.

"Come in", you say, grabbing her hand.

"Figured you'd want something", she mumbles, padding into the living room.

"Uh-huh. Here, sit down."

She sinks onto the couch's cushions, sighing quietly. You straddle her lap and take your sweet time with her for a moment. Just look at her, run your fingers through her hair, gently push the jacket off her shoulders.

Her eyes meet yours. You smile softly and grasp her chin between your fingers.

"You must really like me."

She bites the insides of her cheeks, eyes staring up at you. No response — she doesn't know what to say, because denying the truth would be as uncomfortable as standing by it.

You trail your fingers along her jaw, then slide them up into her hair. You lean in close, so close you can taste her breath and feel her lips brush against yours, but not close enough to kiss her. Finally, Natasha grips your thighs in unspoken frustration.

You laugh quietly and lean in, deciding to go easy on her. You press a kiss to the corner of her mouth and guide her to lay down.

"Cat got your tongue?", you murmur, placing lingering kisses on her jaw.

"Just tired."

"And you decided to show up here."

"Nothing else makes sense this late."

The admission makes you pause, if ever so briefly. You kiss her, hands cupping her face, and feel her hands slip under your shirt.

Fingertips inch higher up and tug at your bra. The clasp comes undone, making the pressure around your chest disappear.

It's slow. Clothes come off, lips meet time after time. Straddling one of her thighs, you litter kisses and little bites on her neck.

"You should sleep", you whisper against her skin. Your fingers are fumbling with the zipper of her jeans.

"I will", she rasps, eyes closed. "After."

"You seem tired", you point out. You tug the waistband of her jeans lower and expose Calvin Klein boxers. An involuntary noise leaves you at the sight.

Natasha puts her hand on the back of your head and pulls you into a kiss. Her other hand grips yours, slowly guiding it into her boxers.

You feel the heavy weight of her length in your hand and nearly moan. A few slow strokes are enough to get her to harden in your palm. You feel every vein, every soft throb, her quickening breathing like music in your ears.

There's something vulnerable about being in this position. Natasha is used to being on top, but with you, she doesn't seem to mind letting you take control.

Her head drops back against the armrest. With her neck exposed to you, your lips linger on her pulse point as you start moving your hand up and down her shaft. The pad of your thumb circles her tip, gathering precum and lubricating her hard-on.

She squirms underneath you, frustrated and restless, a silent request for you to pick up the pace. But you keep your movements slow and steady, drawing out the pleasure and letting it build gradually. Natasha's hips buck into your hand, her hand clasped over her own mouth to stifle moans.

She twitches and throbs hotly in your hand. You kiss her collarbone, your hand applying pressure to her cock. You're drawing her to the edge so gently she feels like she might lose her mind.

Your thumb traces veins and rubs the underside of her length. Another soft whine comes from her mouth. You lift your head to kiss her and swallow the pathetic little sounds she's making. When she comes, her body tenses through the slow, shuddering unraveling. Cum spills on your hand and you pull away.

Dazed, spent, out of breath. Natasha clears her throat, her cheeks flushed.

. . .

You only need to take one look at the bag she's holding to be able to tell.

"You forgot something", you say, paint-smudged hands on her waist as you steer her inside. Much to her dismay, you absently wipe your fingers on her hoodie. She shoots an exasperated look at the blue stains.

"You haven't even opened the bag."

"I can tell. You forgot the snail shells."

Natasha glances at you as she plops onto the couch. You put the bag on the coffee table and rummage through it. You were right — no snail shells. But you do find the requested Oreos and vanilla milk.

"You only eat trash, you know", she says, one arm tucked under her head.

You roll your eyes. "Don't even start with that."

"I mean it. Oreos and sugar-milk aren't exactly the most nutritious dinner."

"Oh, hush", you mumble, swatting at her. Natasha just grins and reaches out, grasping your wrist. "Hey, what-"

She ignores you. With one swift tug, you topple over and she's got you on the couch next to her. You grunt and adjust your position.

"You hush", she retorts, arm wrapping around you and snuggling you closer. "Always complaining. Would it kill you to be grateful for once?"

You huff, smiling. Natasha pinches your side and you let out a gasp.

"Hey!"

"Come on, say it."

"Forget it."

Her fingertips dance over your ribs. You shift and squirm, trying to get away from her grasp, but it's a halfhearted attempt.

"Come on", she repeats. "Say thank you."

Her fingers brush against the underside of your breast. Your laughter turns into a barely contained sound of pleasure.

Natasha laughs and slips her fingertips under the fabric of your bra.

"Say thank you", she whispers, "and maybe I'll be nice."

"So unfair", you retort. "Fine. Thank you."

"Mhm." She hums and kisses your cheek. "Better."

"You know, if you weren't the one delivering me stuff..."

"What?" She scoffs, smiling, and tickles your ribs. She knows better than to get offended by what you said. If it weren't for her delivering your orders, this never would've happened. Neither of you really know what 'this' is, but you both know you like it.

You squirm in her arms and bat at her hand. "You heard me!"

"Is that all I am to you?", she mocks, lightly cupping your breast. "I'm wounded. Truly."

"No", you say, not thinking. "You don't know how much you mean to me, I think."

Natasha goes quiet for a long moment. She feels your heartbeat speed up, rapid like a prey's, when you realize what you just said. But then she shifts and sits up, and she guides you to roll over, and you feel her lips on yours.

She never stays the night. She doesn't let herself get too close to anyone. She's seen you naked, touched every inch of your body with her tongue, yet staying the night always felt like it'd be too much.

This time, she stays. Fully clothed and keeping her space, she lays down. She makes sure not to breathe in the scent of your bedsheets. At some point that night, though, she wakes up. She reaches for you blindly, fingers feeling the air until they graze your arm.

She hesitates. Something has shifted, and she can feel it deep in her bones.

Finally, she pulls you closer. Tucks you against her chest, brushes her fingers along your spine.

. . .

Before she's even managed to open her eyes, you're up and about.

Digging through your closet, brushing your hair, making tea and toast and opening windows. Wind makes the curtains billow out and her hair flutter, so she rolls over and buries her face in your pillow. The sun isn't even up yet.

"Why are you up at this ungodly hour?"

"Watch the sunrise", you say, slipping into a tank top. "Paint a little."

"You're insane."

"Up, up", you say. You throw aside the blanket she's covered with and pat her butt. She doesn't move an inch. "Come on! I need your help with something."

That manages to briefly get her attention, but it doesn't last long. She slumps back into the sheets, her face hidden.

"Forget it", she murmurs.

"Nat", you drawl. "Please. It'll be worth it."

"Define 'worth it'."

You tug at her boxers, just enough to expose a sliver of her butt. She swats at your hand. It's obvious she's tired, so you decide to let it go for a while. As soon as she's out of bed, though, you're dragging her out of the house and toward a shed to the side.

You feel grass under your feet, tickling your ankles. Natasha trails after you, hand in yours, her red hair in a braid. The top she's wearing is one of yours, and it's covered in charcoal and watercolor stains. She's not complaining anymore — too distracting is the sight of you in nothing but an oversized shirt and her boxers.

But then, you open the shed. You reveal a red Fiat.

First, she just stares. The car looks relatively new. Maybe not brand new, no, but no older than about five years. Natasha's a car mechanic, so she can figure that out pretty easily.

"You have a car."

You nod and lead her into the shed. "Yeah. This is DaVinci."

She shoots you a brief, disbelieving look, then stares at the vehicle again. "You've had a car. This whole time."

"Mhm."

"...I've been driving around in the crack of dawn for nothing."

You wave your hand and lean against the wall, ankles crossing. "Not for nothing. It, I dunno...won't start. It cranks, but doesn't really do anything."

Natasha rolls her eyes. She lifts the hood and secures it with the rod, then takes a look at the engine bay. You stay where you are, subtly checking her out. A black tank top and cargos, her braid resting over her shoulder. Hands that are slowly but surely getting covered in grease.

You'd jump her bones, but you already made her roll out of bed for this, so she probably wouldn't appreciate you trying to make a move on her right now.

"Didn't take it to a shop?"

"Wasn't in the mood."

You earn an exasperated look for that. You shrug, and Natasha turns toward the car again. You have no idea what she's doing, truthfully, but that's fine. The view's nice.

"Coolant's good", she says, checking it for leaks. "Battery terminals are a little corroded."

"No idea what that means."

"Of course", she mutters. She frowns and tugs at a belt-like thing. Loose, which isn't a great sign. She unscrews the fuel filter and a nasty liquid drips out. "Jesus. When's the last time you changed this?"

"Change what?"

Natasha purses her lips and puts the filter aside. "I see. Neglect."

"You're being dramatic."

"You should've taken this thing to the shop ages ago", she complains, voice muffled as she leans deeper into the car. Tank top riding up slightly, you catch a glimpse of her toned stomach. Her biceps flex and you almost miss her next question. "Got a toolbox?"

You tilt your head and pretend to have no idea what she's talking about just to mess with her a little. She stares back at you, eyebrows raised. Once she leans onto the car, one hand on the side of the hood and the other covering her forehead, you saunter to the shelves in the back of the shed.

"Oh, thank god", she mutters. "You got a replacement filter?"

"Aw, honey. You believe in me too much, I think."

Another shake of her head. She steps out of the shed, walks to her bike, grabs something, and then returns. You eye the cylinder-like thing with the two tubes sticking out of it.

"That it?"

Natasha doesn't even respond. You do see her lips twitch, though.

She grabs the creeper you for some reason have and lays down on it. Again, abs. Muscles, covered in small grease stains, flex. You stare at them unabashedly.

She slides under the car and unhooks the filter. You crouch down to get a better view of her.

"Now what?"

"Changing the filter", she replies. Fuel dribbles down her forearms and she wipes it off with a rag. "You can thank me later, by the way."

"Will totally do."

She replaces the filter, tightens the clamp, then gives the undercarriage an encouraging tap before rolling back out. You're sitting on the floor cross-legged, shooting her a teasing smile when she reappears.

"What?", she asks, wiping the fuel off her arms.

"You're so good with your hands."

Natasha rolls her eyes, but kisses your cheek anyway. She changes the serpentine belt as well, then closes the hood and pats it. She nods at the car.

"Go on", she says. "Give her a try."

"'Her'?", you say, sitting down behind the steering wheel.

"Cars are always female."

"You learn something new every day." You put the key in the ignition and turn it.

The car seems to hesitate for a moment. It rumbles, cranks, and you're already about to give up — but then it comes to life, smoother than ever before, and you clap your hands.

Before she can register what's happening, you're out of the car again. You throw your arms around her and jump into her embrace, squeezing a little too hard. You hear a soft grunt from her.

"Hey", she laughs, "I'm covered in grease."

"Don't care." You pull away just enough to reach her lips. They're plush and warm against yours. "You're a genius!"

"I do what I can", she mumbles, a little too rosy cheeked and happy, and kisses you again. Walks you backwards until you're sitting on the hood of the car, slowly leaning forward so your back is flush with the cold, hard material. "What now? No more deliveries? I'm officially useless?"

"No", you whisper, tugging her closer by her pants' belt loops. "I'll find a way to keep you entertained."

Metal creaks beneath you. Sunlight seeps into the space. The shed's doors are still open. The air smells like grass, fuel and Natasha's cologne.

Her hands palm your sides, push the shirt you're wearing a little higher. Fingertips trail over smooth, soft skin. Her nose nuzzles your jaw, then you feel wet, hot kisses along your neck.

You wrap your legs around her waist.

"Think DaVinci can handle this?", she murmurs, one hand sliding around to the small of your back.

You pretend to think about it — and then pull her back in.

. . .

You're both on the rug in the living room, a paint-stained blanket draped over her lower half. She's on her stomach, arms crossed underneath her head and her eyes staring at nothing in particular. You're straddling her butt, a paintbrush in your hand.

You've had all kinds of canvases so far. Linen, cotton, in rolls or on panels. Small ones and bigger ones, raw or primed. Yet, none of them come close to the one you're sitting on right now.

Neither of you really talked about this. After sleeping together on the floor, though, surrounded by art supplies and sketches, Natasha’d rolled onto her stomach. You’d seen the smudges of paint on her shoulder. You’d brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck.

"You ticklish?", you’d whispered.

She'd shaken her head 'no'.

It may have been a lie. You can see her twitch ever so slightly whenever the bristles brush against the more sensitive areas of her skin. You put your hand on her shoulder and push her back down when she tries to shift.

"Not yet", you insist, trying to finish the painting of the two little bats.

"Whatever", she mutters. You smile and add tiny teeth to the creatures' mouths.

"It's cute."

"I look ridiculous."

"What?" You huff, getting off her and scooting away on your knees. You grab a different color and return. "Bullshit. You look adorable. Such a shame I'm not a tattoo artist."

She turns her head enough to look at you. Red strands fall in front of her eyes and you reach out to tuck them behind her ear. Your fingertips, stained in black and red, leave specks of paint behind.

"I truly hope you aren't being serious."

"Maybe, maybe not." You grin and wave your hand at her. "Come on, put your head back down. I'm not done with you."

"Oh, for fuck's sake", she mutters, but does as told.

Index finger dipped into black paint, you write the word mine on her lower back.

Natasha tenses, but only briefly. Her fingers curl into the rug underneath her. She exhales, her face buried against her arms again. She's enjoying this a little too much. Not just the feeling of your weight on her body, of cold paint on skin, but everything else as well.

It's been months. You still haven't given up your little routine of ordering stuff and then making her stay the night.

"I felt that", she mumbles, voice muffled.

"What?", you ask innocently. You decide to add a few hearts.

"What you wrote." She hesitates. "You mean it?"

You add another heart. You smile at your own creation, then peek at her face. You can't see her, so you tickle the back of her neck. All it leads to is a small huff, though.

"Is it important?"

"It's not not important."

"So it is."

"Y/N."

"I mean it."

Finally, she looks up. Her eyes search your face.

You haven't defined your relationship. You're staking your claim on her, anyway.

"I mean it", you repeat, seeing the incredulous look on her face. "I wouldn't have spent hundreds of dollars on deliveries if it didn't mean getting to see you."

"Yeah", she murmurs.

"I don't need the deliveries." You let out a slow breath. "I just need you."

The tips of her ears burn red. She shifts, swallows, like she wants to say something but doesn't know how. You nudge her side with your knee.

"Too much, too soon?"

"No." She laughs, dropping her face back onto her arms. "Keep going."

[jaylalolz]

Heyy girl i love ur writing so much! Could i do a request of Father Charlie Smut, with him and reader who loves wearing short dresses and skirts but like she’s innocent girl. She wears one during mass and he can’t stop eyeing her the whole time.

❛ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐒 ❜ . . . nicholas chavez

INNOCENT!reader x PRIEST!charlie 𝜗���� ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

SUMMARY, charlie can’t take his eyes off of her while she wears those short skirts all the time. he realizes that she needs to be punished.

A/N, thanks for requesting!! hope you like it.

WARNINGS, smuttyyyy

Charlie stood at the altar, his voice steady as he read from the Bible. It was an ordinary Sunday mass, yet something felt off. His words were focused on the sermon, but his mind kept wandering, distracted by a presence in the crowd. A familiar one. He tried to ignore it at first, pushing through the scriptures, but every few minutes, his eyes darted back to the same spot.

There she was, sitting in the third row—his favorite girl. She had a way of turning heads without even trying.

Charlie noticed her as soon as she entered the church, the short, black skirt she wore clinging tightly to her legs. It was far from appropriate for a Sunday service, or for any visit to church. It wasn’t just the length—barely reaching mid-thigh—but the way she seemed completely unfazed by it, sitting there confidently, crossing and uncrossing her legs like the length didn’t matter.

He could feel a tension rising inside him, an unfamiliar mix of emotions that tugged at his composure. Why had she worn that here, of all places?

As mass ended and people began filtering out, Charlie couldn’t help but keep his eyes on her. He needed to say something, to address it before it gnawed at him further. With a sigh, he stepped down from the altar and walked toward her.

She was lingering by the restrooms, her usual smile playing on her lips. As soon as she saw Charlie approaching, her eyes brightened.

“Charlie,” she said warmly, tilting her head. “Your sermon was great today.”

“Thanks,” he muttered, his tone a little more serious than usual. He paused, looking at her outfit up close, his brow furrowing. “can we talk for a second?”

Her smile faltered just a bit, noticing the change in his mood. “Sure,” she said slowly, stepping aside with him.

Charlie took a breath, keeping his voice low. “Listen… I couldn’t help but notice what you’re wearing today.”

She blinked, her brows raising in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“The skirt,” he gestured awkwardly, his eyes darting to the hem that barely covered anything. “It’s… not exactly appropriate for church.”

She looked down at her outfit, as if she hadn’t even thought about it before. Her expression was neutral, but there was a hint of something else in her eyes—maybe defiance. “Is it bothering you?”

He shifted on his feet, unsure how to respond. “It’s just… This is a place of worship. People come here to connect with God, and I think what you’re wearing might distract from that. Not just for me—for everyone.”

Her lips curled into a small smile, her voice softening. “Are you saying I’m distracting you, Charlie?”

His face heated up at her teasing tone, but he forced himself to stay serious. “I’m not trying to make this personal. I’m just asking you to be mindful of where you are.”

She studied him for a moment, her eyes searching his face as if weighing her next words carefully. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene. It’s just a skirt, Charlie. Can’t help it if people stare.”

“I know that,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “But people judge, whether we like it or not. And in a place like this, modesty is important.”

Her smile faded, her expression softening. She looked him in the eye, sensing the sincerity behind his words. “I didn’t think it would be such a big deal. But… I’ll be more careful next time.”

He exhaled in relief, nodding. “Thanks. I just want to make sure everyone’s focus is where it should be.”

She gave him a playful nudge. “Well, maybe you just need to focus a little better.”

“You think this is appropriate? You’re drawing attention to the wrong things” Charlie ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep his cool. He knew he wasn’t explaining it right, but the way she stood there, so confident in defying him, was only making his thoughts more muddled.

She cut him off, her eyes narrowing. “Drawing attention? Isn’t that a you problem? Maybe you’re the one who’s distracted, not me.”

Her words hit a nerve, and suddenly, everything Charlie had been holding back came flooding out. “Yes, I am distracted!” His voice was louder than he intended, but it was too late to stop now. “Do you think it’s easy standing up there, trying to give a sermon, trying to focus on leading a mass, when you’re sitting there in the front row, wearing something that… that—”

“That what?” she pressed, her tone icy now.

Charlie swallowed hard, the confession finally spilling from his lips. “That makes it impossible not to notice you. Every time I look out at the congregation, you’re the first person I see. And it’s distracting. It’s not just about the skirt, it’s about… you.”

The air between them felt heavy with his words, and for a moment, She seemed stunned. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, processing what he had just admitted.

“You know,” he began, his voice low and smooth, “I bet you like it when I give you my attention.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt the color rise to her cheeks. She quickly looked away, trying to laugh it off, but her laugh came out awkward, a bit too high-pitched, betraying the nerves that were now crawling their way up her spine.

“What are you talking about?” she said, trying to sound casual, but her voice wavered. She could feel the heat in her face, the way her hands suddenly felt restless as she fiddled with the edge of the throw pillow beside her.

Charlie chuckled, leaning forward slightly, narrowing the distance between them. “You do this thing,” he continued, his eyes never leaving her, “where you act like you don’t care, like I’m not getting to you. But I can see it.” His voice dropped lower, his tone almost teasing. “I can always see it.”

Her heart raced faster now, a dull thrum in her chest. She pressed her lips together, unsure of what to say. He wasn’t wrong. Of course, he wasn’t wrong. She hated that he could read her so easily, hated that she couldn’t hide how his attention made her feel. Nervous, yes. But there was more to it than that, and she wasn’t ready to admit what that was.

“You’re full of yourself,” she finally managed, her words barely above a whisper.

Charlie’s smile widened, that maddening, knowing smile that only made her nerves worse. He leaned back again, but his eyes still held her captive. “Maybe. But I’m not wrong, am I?”

She swallowed, trying to hold onto whatever was left of her composure. “You’re imagining things,” she said, shaking her head, but even to her ears, the denial sounded weak.

“Am I? cause for some reason you always wear a skirt when your around me. I’m not stupid. ” he asked, his tone challenging now, as though daring her to keep denying it.

she looked away again, desperate to break the tension that was steadily building between them. But it was too late. His words had already burrowed into her mind, making it impossible to escape the truth she was trying so hard to ignore.

"Just admit it, already," Charlie said, his voice low and certain, sending a ripple of heat through her.

She swallowed, her hands fidgeting in her lap as she desperately tried to hold onto some sense of control. "Admit what?"

Charlie smirked, standing up from his spot and slowly walking toward her. He was too close now, his presence too overwhelming, the scent of his cologne filling the air around her. He stopped just inches away, his gaze holding hers captive, daring her to keep pretending she didn't know what he was talking about.

"You like it when I give you my attention," he said, his voice almost a whisper, but every word felt like it hit her with the weight of something inevitable. "You like it when I make you nervous."

Her breath caught in her throat. She could feel the heat rising in her face, the rush of adrenaline making her pulse quicken. She wanted to deny it, to brush off his words like she always did, but something about the way he was looking at her made it impossible to lie.

Charlie took another step closer, so close now that she could feel the warmth of his body radiating toward her.

She leaned back slightly, her back pressing against the wall as if it would give her some distance from the truth staring her in the face.

"Charlie, I-" she started, but the words got caught, tangled with her emotions.

He leaned in just a little more, his face inches from hers, his breath warm against her skin. She could feel the tension between them building to a breaking point. His eyes softened, just a flicker of something raw and real underneath the teasing. And in that moment, she knew he wasn't going to let her hide.

"Admit it," he whispered, his voice so quiet, yet so commanding. "You wear those skirts for me”

She hesitated for a split second, her heart pounding in her chest, her thoughts racing, before she finally let go. It was terrifying how right he was.

The way he made her feel, the way his attention seemed to pull her in, no matter how much she tried to fight it.

She couldn't keep denying it, not to him, and not to herself.

"I wear them for you," she finally whispered, her voice barely audible, but she knew he heard her.

A slow, satisfied smile spread across Charlie's face, and for a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them seemed to buzz with something electric, something inevitable.

Then, before she could overthink it, before she could take it back, Charlie's hand was at her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against her skin as he tilted her face up to his. The world seemed to slow down, the room spinning away until there was only him, only them, in this moment they both knew was coming.

"Good," he murmured softly, his eyes locked on hers. "My naughty fucking girl."

And then, with a deliberate slowness, he leaned down and kissed her.

It wasn't hesitant or unsure. His lips were warm, soft, yet firm against hers, and the moment they connected, something inside her melted. She felt herself lean into him, her hands instinctively finding their way to his chest, clutching his shirt like it was the only thing holding her upright.

The kiss deepened, his hand slipping into her hair, pulling her just a little closer. She could feel the tension unraveling between them, all the unspoken words and hidden feelings pouring out in that one perfect moment.

Everything else faded away-the nerves, the fear, the constant push and pull-until all that was left was the warmth of his lips on hers, the way his touch seemed to set her skin on fire.

When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathless, their foreheads resting against each other's. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, both caught up in the aftermath of what had just happened, of what had been building for so long.

He says, "I thought about you every single day after I met you for the first time," as he presses kisses to her cheek and slides his hands down her arms in a leisurely motion that mimics the path his wet lips followed on the way up.

She's trying to listen, but as they explore, the ache he's started between her legs feels like it's pulsating in her ears, and his hands are scratching her skin. He shakes his head and lets out a breathy laugh before giving her another painful kiss and nips in between his low, hoarse confessions. “Always thought about those fucking skirts you wore" When he traces his sharp nails from the inside of her knees up to the tops of my inner thighs, she gasps.

He presses his mouth to her ear, his hot breath making her shiver. "No one compares to you," he mumbles, his voice lowering to a low pitch that turns her stomach. He presses his face against her head and lets out a deep groan as the fingers on one hand slide higher and higher until they draw a slow, agonizing stroke up her heat. The other hand smooths back up her stomach.

Her eyes roll closed and she can only hold her breath as her head lulls back. "All those times you teased me.. I think you deserve to get punished," he says forcing her to a wall.

He exhales, "Shit, you're soaking." She can feel his chest rising and falling rapidly against her back as he lingers, slowly and indulgently stroking his fingers along her shamefully damp folds, avoiding where she really needs them. Nipping at the flesh on her neck, he mumbles against her, "Such a good girl for me, yeah?" she nods eagerly.

One of Charlie's fingers sneaks up and softly wraps around her throat, while the other eventually slides up to rest on the area that has been throbbing ever since he had her pinned to a wall. He maintains his lips tight against her ear, matching the pants pouring out of her, starting to circle his fingers around her clit in the same rhythm.

"Do you feel that?" He flicks her nerves more quickly and puts more pressure on them while rasping into her ear. “your chest get tighter and your heart beating faster?"

She shifts her hips against him mindlessly, her mouth hanging wide, and she doesn't even know how she manages to say a breathless yes, but nevertheless, she manages. "How incredible that feels, you never want it to end?" He goes on, getting a closer hold on her throat, not tight enough to stop her breathing, but tight enough to pull a high-pitched groan out of her, taking her earlobe between his teeth. She panted out another yes and swallowed. "That's how I feel when you're around me, looking at me through your eyelashes- smiling at me. I can feel it in my bones."

She squirms, unable to keep still at the fire igniting inside of her, between what he's saying and what he's doing with his fingers, and her legs begin to shake. His loud, taunting voice reverberates around her, his untamed hair strewn about with strands falling in front of his hungry gaze. "No coming just yet, Angel. I need to taste you."

She can only fling her head back and hide a choked groan the moment he presses his lips to her warmth. He offers her one last slow, dimpled smirk as he wraps his arms around her thighs, holding onto her hips as he sits between her legs. His warm tongue flattens against her clit as his fingers bite into her skin while he lets a deep sigh that rumbles up through him and vibrates against her and she whine at the feeling.

Her back arches as she lets out wild cries that she can't control, and she's clinging to his hair for dear life as his tongue begins to circle and draw deft patterns against her nerves. Her senses are completely assaulted by the guttural moans and growls that are coming out of him as he relishes every response he receives from her. The stress within her was nearly too much for her to bear.

She cries out at the sensation as he his ring and middle finger enters her. The build-up to everything and the delicate way he's sucking and lapping at her pulsating core while his fingers coil inside of her to target that point that has her vision blurring are just too many sensations happening at once. He retracts his tongue while maintaining a fixed gaze on her. He accelerates the speed of his fingers, purposefully striking the area of her body that is producing such a strong pressure.

"Charlie" She exclaim, "What-What is, I don't know what's-oh fuck"; she squeezes her eyes tight, feeling a growing sense of violence inside of her. He examines her expression and quickens the tempo of his careful fingers. He purrs, encouraging her to go forward as he flicks his eyes down to watch his fingers thrust into her. "Don't worry baby, just go with it, it's okay, you're okay".

He moans as he continues to watch what he's doing. She begins to shake, her muscles contracting. She can no longer resist the sensation that her body is having a seizure and going into seclusion at the same time. "Charlie!" She throws her head back, arches off the wall, and yells until the pain tears through her like nothing she has ever experienced. When it finally fades, every part of her body feels as heavy as cement, and she nearly collapses on the ground, her chest heaving as she tries to take in as much oxygen as she can.

“Never wear that skirt again or you’ll regret it”

[blood-smiles]

𝐈’𝐃 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐅! 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 . MDNI . gore . blood brought up very often. sexual assault attempt towards reader (not by yandere) . wounds

જ⁀➴ Your legs burned, limbs clearly unprepared as you sprinted out into the field like a wild gazelle. You hadn’t even begun to work, all you could feel was the sting in your chest, your heart brimming with adrenaline.

Your heart thundered in your ears, you could feel the vibrations of the organ in the right of your chest. Sweat dribbled down your back, mixing with the rain sprinkling from above, bullets zipped past your form just narrowly missing you by a silk thread.

You didn’t know where you were running to, you just were. You were quick and lithe, not a single bullet or stray piece of debris grazed you.

You slid to a stop, the muddy ground underneath your combat boots squelching under your weight. A man, clearly a soldier, judging by his camo uniform and badge, clutched his side while crying out in pain, he kicked his feet on the ground in a way to try and release some of the pain.

He got mud and rainwater all over you but that wasn’t important, you had to help this man, somehow. You studied his wound with the focus of a scholar, features taut with anxiety and the slightest hint of foreboding.

This was the hardest part of your job. Not the blood and bodily fluids, not the close monitoring of wounds, not the procedure but this— Knowing that the decision of letting this man live was in your hands, that a single mistake could send this man to his early grave.

You applied pressure with a cloth you had in tucked in your cargo pockets, your palm firmly pressing against the gaping hole in his side. 

You watched how the once white fabric turned a murky scarlet color, warmth seeped underneath your palm and soaked your hands.

“Don’t worry. You’re safe, you’re going to be okay.” You reassured the injured fellow, making sure to keep a calm, even tone of voice. 

You seemed sure and collected on the outside, like you had everything coldly calculated, almost as if you had already saved this man.

But the truth was far from it. You were a nervous wreck inside, tears pricked your vision, your throat burned and closed in with the need to weep for this man. Your knees were shaking even though you weren’t the one in pain, you allowed him to softly place his hand on your forearm.

“Please stay awake, I need you to stay awake.” You implored, your mind working like a tiny machine, an encyclopedia of methods and practices you had done in the past opening inside your brain.

You carefully planned your next action, his hand tightened on your arm, his dirty nails digging into your skin as he gave a weak cry, you pinched your eyebrows together in deep confusion.

“Sir. Sir? What’s happening?” You asked frantically, finally, panic seeping into your tone. He mouthed something, his whole body shuddering as he tried to muster the last of his strength to point at something behind you.

You read his bloody lips.

‘BEHIND YOU.’

You didn’t even have time to blink, because as soon as you opened your mouth to speak to the soldier, he was already dead.

BANG!

A bullet was planted between his brows, from

how loud the gun sounded it was like someone had shot him almost face to face.

Warm blood sprayed across your face, someone was behind you. Someone was behind you. Someone was behind you.

You breathed in, but you couldn’t move. There was nowhere to go anymore. You were stuck between the sword and the wall. Cornered like a lamb at the mercy of a vicious wolf.

The tears you had been battling against drained out your eyes, and as soon as the first salty droplet could hit the ground a boisterous sound filled your ears.

Before you could formulate your last words pain ripped through you endlessly, with no warning or hesitation. It shot you in the side, you could feel the foreign capsule burying itself in your guts.

The metal felt hot, god. It felt so hot. It felt like you were forced to touch boiling iron, but you weren’t allowed to pull away. There was nowhere way to escape the scalding heat of the bullet because it was inside you.

You had never screamed so loudly in your life, you hit the ground with an ear splitting wail, you curled in on yourself next to the deceased soldier. 

 IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts

You let out a choked sob, something between a cry of pain and a scream. 

A grand man chuckled at your pain, you could see the vague outline of his body out of the corner of your eye. He was large, built like a ravenous wolf, his teeth were bared, sharp and crooked like daggers as he bent down beside you.

His cold hands took a careless grip on your ankles, a new feeling arose, fear. Raw, primal fear. 

His grip was so tight and hurtful that he might have shattered your bones without even noticing— But it wasn’t like he even cared.

What was he going to do to you? You screamed and kicked in desperation, his hands creeped higher up to your knees.

Were you going to die like this? Why? What did you do wrong? You did everything they told you to.

Why me? Why me? Why me? Why me?

Tears didn’t stop, the dam behind your eyes broke. The walls of the well had ruptured, it held years upon years of hate and suffering, and now that it had burst a tidal wave, one with the height of a tsunami had left nothing in its wake.

Your throat felt stuffed with rocks, your vocal cords strained inside you, clawing at the ground, soil settling underneath your nails.

You had tried to fight, you really did but blood was starting to settle in a pool underneath you. Your hair had chunks of dirt and blood, your skin had small cuts and was debauched by debris and flesh that wasn’t yours.

The clouds had parted, a single beam of light pushing through the skies and falling on the burly figure of a soldier with hair as golden as the sun.

Was that an angel? Was he here for you?

Peace at last, why did you feel peace? As soon as you caught a glimpse of those cold, steel blue eyes you felt.. free.

The fight inside had left you.

Like you could rest, maybe it was the blood loss getting to you. The ground underneath suddenly felt warm and comfortable, like the dreamiest of beds, the ones filled with swan feathers that only royals had the luxury of using.

Your eyes fluttered closed, a soft exhale leaving your lips. Blood and rainwater soaked your clothing, you lost consciousness with a small smile.

It was a blessing that you had closed your eyes, because at the least that had protected you from the carnage and absolute inhumane cruelty that would exhibited in front of your unconscious body.

The so called angel was no divine being, but the infamous lieutenant who had his sights set on you, perhaps too closely.

He didn’t hesitate to take the other man from his throat, his thick fingers wrapped around the rugged man’s neck, his nails dug into the thick muscles like the teeth of a bear trap.

The separation of meat from muscle was quick and brutal, Marcelle’s hand ripped the man’s throat out like tearing fat from a chicken leg. It was a disgusting show of force and power, and it was all done for some girl.

Marcelle’s chest heaved, pure rage ran through his veins like adrenaline, his nose was scrunched up like a rabid bear’s would. Someone had hurt you, the light to his darkness, the moon among so many stars.

They tried to tear you from his arms, tried to take advantage of your weak build and gentle heart.

Hate wasn’t an adequate word for what he really felt, it was an understatement of what was going through his twisted head.

The wolf-like man’s larynx dropped on the floor with a wet splat, blood rushed out of the exposed maw that once used to be his throat.

Marcelle was nowhere done with him though. 

A tactical knife strapped on his thigh was dislodged, then driven into the wolf’s stomach, the blonde pressed the blade so tight against his flesh that the peritoneum had been torn apart like a bag of candy on the hallow’s eve.

Guts spilled everywhere, slimy sausage shaped innards were the first to go, unfurling from his stomach like climbing rope.

Everything dropped down at his feet, contaminated filth mixed with blood and mud. Marcelle scoffed at how easy it was to kill this one, it wasn’t a big show of strength to pull this guy apart like tender teriyaki.

The mangled one lost his balance, falling onto his knees while choking on carmine, it sprayed everywhere along with chunks of meat, or what was left of it.

The blonde bear grabbed the disfigured man by his hair, then pressed a dirty boot onto the small of his back. He yanked with vigor at the other’s scalp while maintaining hard pressure on his back.

Then a sick crack came from the crumpled’s spine, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, swollen with blood and severed capillaries.

His spine had been severed in two, cleanly snapped like a toothpick.

The man bent backwards in the fashion of an arc, the cadaver looked like it was doing gymnastics, but really his body was so greatly damaged that his spine couldn’t maintain his weight, he was bent at such an unnatural extent it hurt just by looking at  him.

Marcelle kicked away the body and its innards, sending what was of a man into a puddle, leaving his organs and blood to mingle with the water.

He saw you, curled up like a kitten. But blood streamed out your side like a river, it wouldn’t stop, he panicked.

He dropped beside you, picking you up with the gentleness of what could only be compared to picking up an injured baby bird. He touched your face with the delicate touch of a feather, your face was dirty, streaked with dirt and crimson. 

He pressed his ear against your chest, the soft thump of your heart whispering that you had limited time.

His breath caught in his throat.

He was taught to never cry. That a man should never cry in the presence of anyone, but in this moment, this miserable and unfortunate situation he could do no less than weep.

All he could see was the tiny smile on your lips, your precious visage ruined by destruction of war. You didn’t stop bleeding, you can’t stop. His eyes watered, for the first time in decades he allowed himself to shed a tear.

“No.. No— You can’t.. You won’t leave me!” He yelled to your unconscious form, his dirtied hand grasping your limp one. He squeezed tightly, hoping that if he gripped hard enough you would react, that those pretty (e/c) eyes would look up at him one last time.

His distress was heard, a group of young soldiers trotted over to him, finding their great lieutenant distraught over the soon to be corpse of a nurse.

He hugged the body close to his chest, trying to share warmth to the wounded girl, his chin rested over her head, his thick fingers smoothing over her filthy hair, they weren’t sure if he was trying to soothe the injured woman or himself.

They came up to him, touching his shoulder and trying to reach the nurse in his arms. He didn’t take well to that.

He snapped at them, snarling like a furious bear protecting his young. He clawed at them, finding a discarded gun somewhere, it shook in his hands as he aimed at them. His finger looped into the trigger, only to hear a click.

Blank.

Blank.

Blank.

The gun was empty of bullets, so he took the next alternative, the only thing he knew to do, fight with his fists.

There was no one that could go up against him, they knew that Marcelle could divorce their head from their shoulders clean.

“You are not going to take her.” He rasped, putting himself between you and the men. Now they all looked like enemies, like big red training targets with white swirls. 

The cadets glanced at each other, just barely noticing the lifeless bodies surrounding the blonde and the wounded girl in his arms.

“Holy shit..” one of them murmured as he looked around, Marcelle had gone berserk, especially on this man at his feet, completely disemboweled— Where was his throat? 

He stared at the human remains on the floor, feeling the urge to vomit his stomach out right here and there.

A new voice pushed through, the head nurse shouldered men away as she jogged towards the pair of bloodied lovers.

“Look. I don’t care who you are or what your rank is—“ she began, walking towards Marcelle with no fear whatsoever.

“But that girl is going to die if you keep hoarding her like an aggressive mutt!” She yelled, beads of sweat collecting on her brow, she plowed through the mud and dirt just to make it to you.

Marcelle stared at her with a vacant look in his eyes, he didn’t have it in him to touch a woman with intent of harm.

His grip tightened as she approached, water dripped now his face, sweat and rain soaked his uniform. He wasn’t about to let her tug you away, over his dead body.

She tried to pull you away, her hands gripping your forearms as hard as she could but Marcelle’s hold was unrelenting and soon she would have to call herself defeated in the strength game.

“Fine. You can carry her.” She said with an edge to her voice, she took the collar of her uniform in her hands and pulled him up how a dog would pick up a puppy by its scruff.

“But she is going to to live and you are going to take her back now.” She demanded it like his first drill sergeant, he listened to that one order, he slowly ascended from the ground and followed the nurse.

He stared at your face the whole way he walked, his finger curved gently, his pad brushing away your hair behind your ear.

You’re going to be okay, you’re going to live.

His jaw tensed as a new wave of emotions ran over him, he couldn’t break down, not yet. He had to be strong for you.

He gently pressed his forehead against yours, his palm gently residing over your chest, feeling the soft thump of your heart under his hand.

He didn’t remember clearly when but he got ushered out of a room, he woke up in a sterile area surrounded by other people in what seemed to be a waiting room.

He vaguely recalled that he had to be restrained by four men, he got stabbed with a tranquilizer and that’s when everything went dark.

Where were you? His heart picked up in his chest, what had happened? Were you alive?

With a sudden movement he got up from his seat, a clipboard fell from his lap onto the ground. It held only a blank paper, with a single room number in it written in blue ink.

Marcelle had never ran faster in his life, he didn’t know or care how many people he knocked down as he sprinted through the halls. Nurses and doctors turned their heads at breakneck speeds as he zipped past them like a wild animal.

He opened your room door with a bang, sweat gathered on his forehead and his body burned, there you rested.

You, covered in bandages, body clean of dirt and blood, your hair looking soft like nothing had ever touched it. Soft morning light entered through the window, you glowed under the sun like a white dove.

You were hooked up to a monitor, constant beeping telling him you were still alive, it seemed you were breathing on your own, judging by the way your chest slowly rose and fell.

He was filthy with grime and sweat, he could never touch you, afraid he would taint you he stood back. He wanted nothing more than to touch your face, to see your smile again.

It wasn’t long until he was unceremoniously kicked out your room by your main caregiver. 

Marcelle came back the day after, and the day after and the days following that. He kneeled beside your bed like a puppy nudging his owner’s hand with its muzzle.

His hand gently held yours, he placed it over his head, on his cheek, just to feel your touch again. Just to feel the way your fingers would run through his hair again, to feel your fingers curing his wounds again.

He weeped more in that hospital than he had cried in his whole life. He was sure that he would drown in his own tears if he kept it up, he missed you so much, he wouldn’t leave your side for a moment.

There were times he would refuse to leave your room at all, security was forced to tranquilize him and at one point threatened to place a restraining order if he didn’t abide by their rules.

Then that day came, he sat by your bed, holding your hand to his heart, praying to whatever was up there to bring his baby back to him. 

He had never been a faithful man, but if that’s what it took to make you wake up, he would pray all day, everyday no matter the hour or situation.

The slightest twitch from your fingers made him jump, a glimmer in his grey eyes showed that he had hope. He stared at your hand, waiting for that little movement to come back.

Your eyelids moved, your facial muscles twitched, Marcelle stood from his chair abruptly, the furniture scratching the floor and making an unpleasant screech.

You opened your eyes, your beautiful (e/c) hues flitted around the room with confusion, the grogginess of consciousness filling you again.

You looked through your blurry memories, it felt like looking through frosted glass but you remembered a few things, the one that stood out to you most was the blonde angel.

There he was again. 

Why was he crying? You wondered, trying to sit up only to give up when the pain was too unbearable, the man pushed you back down, scolding you and forcing you back into the bed.

You recognized him, your first patient ever. Marcelle.

Just when you were about to speak he basically pounced, he hugged you like you would disappear in that moment. He felt warm and comfortable, you could barely bring your hands to wrap around him.

His shoulders shook with silent sobs, he couldn’t stop crying again, but this time it wasn’t out of sorrow but happiness.

You were back. You were alive and in his arms.

He pulled away, looking you in the face as if this was all a dream, he touched your every feature, trying to re assure himself that this was no fantasy.

“I love you.” Were the first words he said when you woke up, that might have sent you to another coma in that moment.

The blood from your wound had rushed up to your cheeks, you searched his face for any trace of a joke but then remembered.

Marcelle doesn’t do jokes.

He kissed your hand softly, tears still streaming down his cheeks. He couldn’t kiss you yet, you were healing and could catch sicknesses especially quickly.

So he would wait, wait until you were ready.

“I think.. I love you too.” You shyly smiled, fingers trembling with embarrassment.

To Marcelle, waiting would prove to be more difficult than he thought.

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #27

Danny wasn’t trying to become a supervillain’s protégé. Honestly, he was just trying to survive another semester at MIT without spontaneously combusting from stress. At nineteen, between triple-majoring in Astrophysics, Mechanical Engineering, and Paranormal Biochemistry—and moonlighting as the occasionally-glowy, occasionally-exploding, semi-competent vigilante known to the public as Phantom—Danny was hanging on by a thread. A very frayed, very caffeine-soaked thread. So when one of his professors suggested a special “independent study project” with a visiting Latverian dignitary-slash-scientist, Danny said yes without thinking. He needed the credits. He needed the money. He needed the free lunch vouchers. What he did not need, apparently, was to accidentally apprentice himself to Doctor Fucking’ Doom.

At first, he didn’t know. To Danny, “Victor” was just this weird, intense European dude with a crazy sense of fashion (who the hell wore a green cape in broad daylight?) and a laugh that definitely belonged in a villain origin story. But Victor paid well, never judged him for falling asleep mid-sentence, and always had the best coffee imported from who-knows-where. Danny figured he was just some rich old nerd with a lot of quirks. Maybe a little murder-y, but hey, Danny was from Amity Park. His standards for “dangerous mentor figure” were catastrophically low.

“Daniel,” Victor intoned one day, standing over a schematic that looked suspiciously like a laser death satellite. “Tell me: what improvements would you make to a mobile interdimensional particle cannon capable of vaporizing Manhattan?”

Danny, who hadn’t slept in three days and thought this was just a theoretical design, squinted at the blueprints and muttered, “Uh… you forgot the phase stabilizer. Without it, the cannon would rip itself apart before you could fire. Also, your aim’s gonna suck unless you recalibrate the gyroscopic system.”

Victor went unnaturally still. “Explain.”

Danny yawned so hard his jaw cracked. “M’kay, so if you adjust the vibrational harmonics here”—he drew all over the deadly weapon diagram with a crayon—“and rework the mana-infused crystal lattice to resonate at a higher frequency… boom. Stable, precise, terrifying. A+ on your murder machine, Professor Von Evilcape.”

Victor stared at him for a long time. Then he laughed. Not just any laugh. A full, villainous, booming laugh that echoed through the lab and set off three alarms in the next building over. Danny didn’t even blink. He just kept doodling tiny ghosts on the margins of the schematic.

From that moment onward, Victor—Doctor Doom, actual dictator of Latveria, sorcerer supreme wannabe, world-class narcissist—decided Danny was his heir apparent. His secret weapon. His beautiful chaotic son who understood him better than any of the clowns in Latveria ever had. He didn’t ask Danny if he wanted the role. He just started sending Danny increasingly absurd “assignments” that Danny, running on Monster Energy and bad life choices, completed without registering how criminally insane they were.

Case in point: one evening, Danny stumbled into the lab with a Red Bull in one hand and a half-eaten burrito in the other. Victor handed him a device.

“Install this at Stark Tower.”

Danny blinked at the tiny, harmless-looking black box. “Uh, what is it?”

“A signal booster for quantum research purposes.”

Danny, who trusted absolutely no one and also didn’t care because he had a paper due at midnight, shrugged. “Okay, cool.”

He broke into Stark Tower that night with the ease of a sleepwalking raccoon, installed the “signal booster” inside one of Tony Stark’s servers, and left. The next morning, the news was screaming about a massive data breach that almost triggered World War III. Danny was too busy trying to finish his midterm essay on quantum entanglement to notice.

“Good work, Daniel,” Victor said approvingly during their next meeting, clapping him on the back so hard he almost faceplanted into a dimensional rift. “You have the soul of a conqueror.”

“Thanks, man,” Danny mumbled, chugging coffee straight from the pot.

Victor took it a step further. He started introducing Danny at fancy functions. “This is Daniel. He is my most promising apprentice. One day he will inherit my empire.”

Danny, half-dead from exams and not paying attention, just nodded absently and said, “Yup. Love the Empire Strikes Back. Great movie. Big fan.”

Victor beamed.

It wasn’t until six months later, after the “Study Abroad” paperwork (actually an all-expenses-paid trip to Latveria) and the suspiciously grand laboratory gifted to him “for his brilliance,” that Danny realized something was deeply wrong.

He was skimming through some documents on Victor’s encrypted network—because of course Doom had an encrypted network called “DoomNet”—when he found it.

Last Will and Testament of Victor Von Doom: In the event of my death, all of Latveria, my scientific research, all proprietary technology, magical artifacts, nuclear launch codes, hidden doomsday devices, and the title of Supreme Monarch will pass to my chosen heir: Daniel Fenton, aka “Phantom,” aka “My Beautiful Disaster Child.”

Danny read it three times.

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Am I—AM I A VILLAIN PRINCE?!”

Cue the world’s most pathetic breakdown.

“NO NO NO NO NO. I JUST WANTED A DAMN SCHOLARSHIP!” He hurled a coffee mug at the wall. It phased through because he lost control of his intangibility again. “THIS IS WHAT I GET FOR TRUSTING ANYONE IN A CAPE.”

Danny spent the next two hours panic-researching Victor Von Doom. It was bad. It was really bad. It was, like, world-endingly bad. Murder records. Wars. Kidnapping Reed Richards’ kids. Banning Beyoncé from Latveria because she rejected his dinner invitation. BAD.

And it was too late. Doom had gone on international television that morning and announced Danny’s name as his successor.

“I have chosen my heir,” Doom declared, standing proudly atop his gold-plated balcony while cameras flashed below. “The boy shall inherit everything I have built. Bow before your future king, Daniel Fenton!”

Meanwhile, in his MIT dorm room, Danny choked on his cereal.

“Oh my God,” Tucker screamed over Facetime. “YOU’RE DOOM JUNIOR!”

Jazz was furiously typing. “Danny, that’s treason. Like, actual treason.”

Sam just stared at him with unholy glee. “So… when are you conquering America?”

“NEVER,” Danny screeched.

Too late. The Avengers showed up at MIT the next day. It was not subtle.

Tony Stark crashed into Danny’s quantum physics lecture, kicked open the door, and pointed dramatically at him. “YOU!”

Danny, hunched over his notes and running on negative hours of sleep, blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah, you, Doom Boy,” Tony said, stomping down the aisle while half the class screamed and ducked for cover. “You hacked my servers, hijacked my satellites, and installed a literal doom-signal into my mainframe. Care to explain, junior dictator?”

Danny held up his hands. “Okay, look. In my defense, I thought it was a Wi-Fi booster.”

Steve Rogers leaned in. “Are you actively trying to destroy America?”

Danny’s eye twitched. “Sir, I am actively trying to pass Organic Chemistry.”

Natasha Romanoff clicked a pen menacingly. “Are you or are you not plotting to overthrow the world?”

Danny hesitated. “I mean… define ‘plotting’?”

There was a long, painful silence.

Tony sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Kid. You’re on, like, several different international watchlists. Half of SHIELD thinks you’re planning to nuke New York.”

Danny’s voice cracked. “I didn’t even know how to do laundry until last month.”

And thus began the most chaotic custody battle in history: Doom versus the Avengers versus Danny versus himself.

Victor, naturally, was thrilled. He sent Danny monogrammed armor. A custom throne. A letter that read “My son, all great rulers are hated before they are loved. However feat not. Seize your destiny.”

Danny sent it back with a post-it note that said “pls stop.”

Tony tried to recruit him instead. “Work for me. You like tech, you like coffee, you’re already better at hacking than Peter—”

“HEY,” Peter Parker shouted from across the hall.

Danny groaned into his hands. “I don’t want to work for anyone! I just want a nap!”

Sam Wilson patted him on the back sympathetically. “Welcome to adulthood, kid.”

Things escalated horrifyingly fast. Latverian officials tried to smuggle Danny out of Massachusetts under the cover of night. Doom built a life-sized gold statue of him in Latveria’s capital square. The Avengers started putting “Phantom Threat Level: High” on their briefing files. Nick Fury cornered him in a diner and deadpanned, “Son, you’re one bad day away from becoming an international incident.”

Danny, shoving pancakes in his mouth, muffled, “I don’t wanna.”

Of course, life didn’t let him off that easy.

When Doom inevitably “died”—allegedly vaporized by a malfunctioning time machine because of course he did—Danny woke up to find a legal team at his dorm room.

“Congratulations, Your Majesty,” the lead lawyer said with an evil smile. “You are now King of Latveria.”

Danny fainted on the spot.

He woke up fifteen minutes later to find Sam fanning him with a Doom flag and Tucker wearing a Latverian general’s hat he stole from one of the lawyers.

“So…” Tucker grinned. “Wanna invade Canada first?”

Danny screamed into his pillow.

And somewhere, deep in the void between worlds, Doom—very much alive and sipping espresso—chuckled darkly.

“Atta boy, Daniel,” he whispered. “Atta boy.”